Makes the Wind: A Lamb Before the Slaughter
by MerryMandolin
Summary: Seeking desperately to become the hero the Order needs, it becomes more and more clear to Harry how dangerous that prospect is. But, in a life fraught with crisis and tragedy, what's just a little more? [ Canon-divergent, adoption/family, blood politics, mental illness/PTSD, developing relationships ] [ Also on AO3 ]
1. Harry

Disclaimer: We don't own anything, we just do this for fun.

And so begins a journey long in the making. Welcome to a sixth year AU cooked up by my best friend, cricket, and I. We've spent years and years theorycrafting and world building, and for it all to culminate here. We hope that you'll join us as we travel down this path and unravel this tale we've wanted to tell for a very, very long time. We hope that you'll enjoy the angst, the drama, and the magic.

A huge thank you to Henry and Caleb for betaing this work. Your assistance is invaluable.

••••••••••

Malfoy was acting strangely.

It started at the Welcoming Feast. Harry had tried not to seek out that head of coiffed, blonde hair but, to his credit, he wasn't the only one watching the Slytherin table when the uproar began. Although, "uproar" was possibly an overstatement, considering the absolute silence that reigned through the entire ordeal.

When Dumbledore had barely uttered the first sentence of his speech and before the banquet was served or the Sorting Ceremony begun, half the Slytherin table stood and filed out of the Great Hall. They consisted mostly of older students, some Harry recognized and others he didn't, performing a taciturn march away from the proceedings. This alone sparked a host of whispers from the other tables, but the most notable figure was Malfoy, whom Harry spotted sitting amidst a confused gaggle of lower years. He arose a touch later than the others, expression grim, and, when he did, a passing Slytherin laid a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back down into his seat.

After that, he did not move for the entire feast. Harry snuck quick glances at him for the duration: He was always in the same position with his head lowered, shoulders thrown back, hands in his lap. He did not eat and, more importantly, he did not speak to anyone. He simply sat, empty stare anchored to the table until everyone was dismissed to their dorms two hours later.

Since then, Malfoy had only come to a handful of dinners, but his temperament grew more and more despicable. Wherever he appeared, everyone knew to be wary. Quiet and tense, Malfoy would go about his business, until some small event occurred, and although they were often so incidental as to be easily forgotten, they never failed to pivot him over the edge. Harry heard from Ron that he'd hexed a Hufflepuff girl with boils in plain view of everyone for accidentally stepping on his foot and Padma, in tears, mentioned that he had sabotaged her potion because she'd correctly answered a question in class. Her potion had overflowed all over, melting her desk, the stone floor, her partner's school books, and had burned her legs pretty badly. Potions classes were cancelled for the rest of that afternoon and Padma had been laid up in the Hospital Wing for several days.

Still, Malfoy being a horrid person wasn't surprising to Harry. However, he'd been dumbfounded to witness Malfoy attacking a member of his own house. Dinner had begun in earnest, and the Slytherin table was sparse as it usually was when Dumbledore was around. Desserts had just popped into existence on the tables when one of the fourth year Slytherin boys approached Malfoy's solitary spot. He spoke calmly, posture straight, and though Harry couldn't hear what he said, it was evidently enough to cause Malfoy to stand, abandoning his food. His expression betrayed nothing, but in a flash he'd grabbed the boy by the lapels of his robe and shoved him against the table. The thumping sound of his back connecting with the wood and the clamour of a metal plate crashing to the floor drew the attention of the teachers; the room became hushed enough for everyone to hear Malfoy snarl, "And why would _I_ care about what you think, Mudblood lover?"

He'd left quickly after that, but the impression he left behind was undeniable: If he'd been bad before, it was nothing compared to now.

Harry had to wonder where he was off to during all the times he didn't show up to meals, or skived off classes. He'd spot Malfoy skulking around in random alcoves, reading from a book with no title, or lounging in a hallway, eyes following other students with a calculated gleam.

However, the strangest of changes in Malfoy was this: after five years of targeted antagonism, he seemed to be avoiding Harry altogether.

It was eerie - the silence that followed Harry's answers in class, the lack of jeers whenever he was asked to demonstrate something for a teacher. No snide remarks about Quidditch, no snickers whenever he walked by. It would be a relief if it weren't so disturbing… If Malfoy had given up the taunts, then that certainly meant something was up. And Harry? He intended to find out what it was, despite Malfoy's efforts to hide it.

He'd even gone so far as to ask Dumbledore about it, when he'd finally gotten to speak to him weeks back.

"Professor?"

The older man's eyebrows rose as he peered at Harry from behind his spectacles. "Yes, Harry?"

"I don't suppose you think Malfoy is acting… dodgy, do you?"

Dumbledore threaded his fingers together atop his desk. "I daresay he always has, but there isn't much he can do from Azkaban."

Harry frowned. It was long past the time where the senile act worked on him. "You know what I mean."

His spectacles flashed as he shifted in his seat. "Ah, you are referring to young Draco, I presume?"

"I think he may have finally joined up with Voldemort. He's always been a snobbish-" he wanted to say 'arsehole', but thought better of it in front of the Headmaster, "-prat. But it's gone beyond."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well- I mean, you've seen it, right? He's always off to the Hospital Wing for something or other. He can't be sick _that_ often. Especially with the way he pretended his tiny injury was a mortal wound in third year-!"

"Well, he is only sixteen, Harry. We must allow children to be children, if they wish."

He had no idea what that was supposed to mean. "I don't think 'childlike' is the word I would use to describe him; he's got to be up to something. I can feel it."

"Harry." The way his name fluttered out of the old man's mouth was tender, as if he required soft handling. "I understand that, in light of… all that has transpired, you may feel as if danger lurks in every corner."

He was talking about Sirius. Bellatrix. Voldemort. The _possession_. Harry's stomach turned over, and he choked out through a throat clenched tight: "Well, yeah. Because it is."

"These are, indeed, dark times, Harry," the Headmaster affirmed with a sigh. "But, still, it is no time to jump at shadows. There is no evidence to suggest that Mr. Malfoy is operating for Voldemort's sinister purposes."

"What, so you're just going to let him go off on Muggleborns? How long until he really hurts someone? What more evidence do you need?"

"Professor Snape is charged with Mr. Malfoy's care. You have no need to worry in that quarter."

Harry's lips twisted; he very much doubted Snape's capacity for 'care', but he sensed that this was a topic that Dumbledore had delegated. "Right."

"Now," the Headmaster tilted his head downward, surveying Harry, "Is there something else on your mind?"

Plenty. Where to even start? "Professor McGonagall mentioned that I didn't meet the requirement for Potions. Is there, uhm…?" He faltered. To be honest, it was difficult to parce what he even wanted. Escaping Snape's tutelage was a blessing in and of itself. However, McGonagall had made it clear: You couldn't even dream to enter the Auror career without a N.E.W.T. in Potions and... if he couldn't be an Auror, then what else could he possibly want to be?

Ron had made a habit of reminding him that special exceptions could be made for Harry's case, considering his… reputation. But Harry would rather eat slugs than barter entry with his popularity.

Dumbledore didn't appear even remotely concerned. "The matter has been handled," he replied with a wave of his hand. "Professor Snape has agreed to let you into his N.E.W.T. course."

"He-" Harry stumbled over his own words. "He _what_?"

"Potter." Snape's voice, brimming with impatience, boomed in the periphery, forcing its way into his attention. All at once, Harry's eyes focused and the Headmaster's office melted away into a grim palette of black and green, damp and dark. It was no longer weeks prior, it was now, and Harry very hastily gathered that Snape had addressed him once or twice before… if the scowl on his face was anything to go by.

Snape loomed over his desk in a manner all too familiar for the boy. He looked up at the man, replying with a sudden "Sir?"

The professor's gaze was black, piercing, and his mouth was wound taut in a thin, displeased line. "How many lionfish spines have you put in your potion?"

Right. Too familiar. His stomach clenched; Harry knew what was coming. Although this was a more specialized class, teeming with older years, Harry had a feeling that Snape's custom of public humiliation was still his go-to method of chastisement. Schooling his expression into something more neutral, Harry responded with a raised chin, "None, sir."

"And what time is it?"

"After ten, sir."

Snape seemed to revel in this answer, despite his cutting reply. "Oh? After ten? Is that truly the best you can do?"

At this juncture, he should've been able to help it. He was sixteen and he knew mouthing off wouldn't get him anywhere good. Yet all the same, his retort burst from him, incredulous and unbidden. "Who am I, Father Time?"

The irritation on the professor's face grew by degrees. He let the silence linger, thick and tense, mingling with the already oppressive atmosphere of the classroom. His reply, when it came, was desert dry. "Hilarious." Then, he addressed the room at large: "Since most of you have reached the frozen stage, gather around."

Harry's gaze darted around as several of the N.E.W.T. students did as they were told. Hermione, who Snape had purposely separated from him on the first day of class and onward, offered Harry a sympathetic frown. Many of the others Harry didn't know, or didn't care about, seeing as half the class consisted of Slytherins. By now, they were well used to these combative exchanges between him and Snape, but those from other houses seemed to be a mix of confused and wary.

Once everyone arrived, Snape's guillotine eyes made a significant swipe down the length of his nose to the work table, where he slid his wand with precise strokes to the very edge of Harry's cauldron. " _Unum Vinculum_."

Harry could only watch in horror as the professor's spell took effect, his potion losing its previous frothy swirl, beginning to clump and curdle. Within seconds, it had crusted to the bottom of his cauldron, a goopy, cyan monstrosity which bubbled like molasses.

The professor had destroyed his potion. In full view of _everyone_. Before, he'd always been shifty about it by 'accidentally' dropping his potion at the end of class, or simply refusing to give him a grade due to 'sloppy craftsmanship'.

But now… Here he was. Humiliating Harry as always, but without an ounce of shame enough to hide the evidence. He glared down at his ruined potion, anger boiling in his lungs, trying to bubble up as a shout. Every time he thought he had finally reached the pinnacle of Snape's antagonism, the man managed to find new ways to outdo himself.

He clung to propriety by a thin thread. "How am I supposed to finish my potion now?" Harry uttered between clenched teeth. Then, he tacked on a pejorative, " _Sir?_ "

"You won't," was Snape's immediate response. "Clear out your cauldron and start over."

Start over? _Start over?!_ After what he just did?! "I won't be able to finish!" Harry seethed.

Snape stared at him for longer than Harry felt comfortable before he raised his voice to the whole class. "Who can inform Mr. Potter how long his potion must simmer before adding the lionfish spines?"

Harry hadn't seen anyone lift their hands, but Snape's head made a slight turn, eyes directed toward something over Harry's shoulder. Seconds later, he heard a voice, quiet, but confident: "Five minutes for the first half. Then the second half after ten more minutes of simmering, sir."

"Correct. Five points to Slytherin. And, how long has it been since you started your potion?"

Harry dared a glance behind him. He didn't spot the girl until she answered with a prompt, "Thirty minutes, sir," but it dawned on him rather swiftly how odd she looked among the throng of Slytherins. Visibly older than the other sixth years, she stood above them with a straightened back, her dark blonde curls sitting demure over her shoulders. Her expression was neutral, wide-set eyes trained on the Professor. She _was_ wearing school robes, but an odd thought struck Harry still: It was rather unfair to be set up against someone who was so clearly a teacher's aide. Yet, indicated by the points Snape had just given out, she couldn't have been.

Stranger still, the other Slytherins didn't seem all that pleased. Even Malfoy, who would always find himself preening at the idea of Slytherin gathering points, had a decidedly sour look on his face.

She caught him staring. He watched as she shifted in place, shoulders rolling back. A little louder, she added: "He should be handling his Valerian petals at this point."

"Indeed." Snape's eyes snapped back to Harry. "In fact, every one of your classmates has minced their Valerian petals, in preparation of their potion's thaw. Curious, that yours should still be wholly attached to the stem."

He didn't bother looking down at his work table, instead letting his gaze unfocus at some middle distance between two Ravenclaws. This wasn't about instruction, it was about making Harry lose his nerve, making him regret ever _daring_ to enter Snape's classroom. Dumbledore had said it himself: one outburst, one negative incident, and no amount of string pulling would get him back in this class. Clearly, he had said much the same to Snape himself.

When Harry did not react, Snape continued, voice smooth and deadly, a venom that seeped into his ears, "A month of lessons, and yet you have not retained a syllable, have you? Still you insist on attending this class, when you are _beneath_ your peers."

The muscles in Harry's jaw were so tight that it physically hurt him to hold back. His throat burned with words unsaid, his whole body rigid as it resisted an urge (one that sang and pulsed against his frame) to punch Snape in his oily, disgusting face.

"You are wasting precious time, Potter, and valuable resources, by taking up space at this worktable."

Hermione spoke up, her hand raised at the elbow. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see her expression was resolute, bordering on bleak. "Um, sir, I know that-"

"Ten points from Gryffindor." Snape's interruption was curt; he didn't even deign to look in her direction.

Harry's bubble of control was getting dangerously close to bursting. The greasy git could say what he wanted to Harry, but going after his friends? He knew he was venturing into perilous territory, but he finally looked Snape dead in the eye. What did it matter if the man could see all the hatred stewing in his mind? Hands clenched against his knees hard enough to make his fingers ache, Harry felt compelled to make this strangled inquiry: " _Why?_ "

He couldn't be certain what he meant by asking it, but it was the question that was weighing most heavily behind his temples, thumping with an incessant rhythm. There was something in Snape's expression that insinuated that he knew what Harry meant, but still, that haughty smirk crossed his face, and he answered, looming over the tabletop: "That's ten more points from Gryffindor." A dramatic pause. He was enjoying this. "For speaking out of turn."

He felt it, then. The fury frothing over. He was ready; his mouth was poised on a biting remark, but something stopped him.

Something he didn't expect.

That voice again. The Slytherin girl. He was used to Slytherins jeering and goading Snape on, but not this. She only spoke one word, but it was one that was both beseeching and consolatory. "Professor."

"What?" Snape barked, gaze whipped in her direction.

No points taken for _that_ interruption, Harry couldn't help but notice.

When Harry looked back at her, her eyes flickered from Snape to the hourglass at the front of the room. "I'd estimate we only have two more minutes to add the petals to our mixtures in the proper manner before they curdle," she announced, hands clasped behind her back. "I would like to return to my workstation, please."

Snape straightened, his displeasure plain. He, too, cast his eyes to the hourglass and, perhaps after witnessing something Harry couldn't quite understand himself, drew in a measured breath. "Very well. Return to your potions, all of you."

The man's baleful glower fell briefly on Harry as the students dispersed, but he said nothing more, returning to the front of the room. It was only a miniscule solace; his potion was still destroyed. Though he did make the effort to unwind himself from his chair and begin his brewing anew, it was in vain. His potion did not reach a stable point where he could turn it in for grading, and Snape's virulent stare as he disposed of Harry's work haunted him for hours after.

Hermione caught the end of his robe moments after he'd exited the classroom to begin his long slog out of the dungeons. "Harry, wait. I'm sorry. I thought I could help, but I suppose I should know by now-" she paused, shaking her head. "Nevermind. I'm really happy you kept your head. But, really, you ought to-"

He shirked away from her at the mention of what he 'ought' to do. "Make my excuses to Ron," he said, abruptly stopping in place.

She deflated, and soon after her voice gasped out in a soft whine. "Harry."

" _Not-_ " That came out way harsher than he intended. Taking a breath, he finished, "... now."

If there was anything to be said about Hermione, it was that she had the good sense to know when not to push. The corners of her lips upturned in a sad smile and she nodded, only taking a second longer to look him over before departing.

The other students had long since filed past them, leaving Harry as the solitary figure in the corridor. He sighed before rubbing his eyes vigorously in some paltry, half-hearted attempt at clawing them out. Arms whipping back to his sides with a frustrated swing, he looked first one way, toward the stairs that led up, and then the other, where the hall descended further into darkness. He'd never ventured very far into the dungeons, except when he'd followed Malfoy around as one of his cronies in second year.

Before he'd made a conscious decision, he was already walking further down the hall.

His hands were still wound into fists, and it hurt, so he made a concerted effort to flex his fingers. Focusing on his breathing, as he often did while playing Quidditch, helped to calm him somewhat. The air was cooler in the dungeons, but also stagnant, which made the echoes of his footsteps reverberate with a chaotic, thunderous clamor against the walls.

The longer he walked, the more tension began to seep out of his muscles, though his mind did not quiet. His rage followed closely behind him, dragged along by the memory that he continued to revisit - the dungeon scene with all its trappings; Snape smug and self assured. What he wouldn't give to spit in the man's face, to put him down just as he'd done to Harry for so many years. Hermione's words clanged around in his mind, _I'm really happy you kept your head_ , adding to the cacophony already taking place, and he snorted aloud at the irony of it. He really hadn't at all.

Harry _had_ told Dumbledore that he was mature enough to handle Potions class without causing trouble. If that didn't hold true…

"Something else, Harry?" Dumbledore had asked when they last met. "You look troubled, still."

"You said- that you made a mistake. Last year. That you should have told me more, instead of less."

Harry regretted bringing it up when the older man's expression plummeted into sorrow within an instant. "I have been as open to you as I could reasonably be these last few months, have I not?"

"N-no, of course- I didn't mean-" Harry stammered. "I only wanted to say, you can't really tell me everything because I'm not really… You know, just because I'm the Boy Who Lived doesn't mean I'm… involved."

Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles, his white eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. "What do you mean, exactly?"

Harry rallied, sitting up a little straighter. "I mean… I want to be part of the Order. Not- not just as- you know, a banner to be waved for them, but a real, actual _member_. I'm not a child any longer; you saw it yourself. If there's something I can contribute, then I want to."

"Oh, Harry," the Headmaster gingerly chided him. "You already do."

A frustrated sigh near exploded from his lungs. "Professor, next year I come of age, and there's no guarantee I'll even make it that far. If I'm to survive, I don't need more school and theory. I need practical experience. I won't get that at Hogwarts."

Dumbledore's salmon-colored robe glittered as he leaned forward in his seat. "On that point, I have to disagree. Hogwarts will not teach you how to fight, but it will give you the skills to live."

"Well, I'm not quitting school," Harry conceded. "I just think there's more I could be doing. If things turn out…" _Badly_ , he thought, but didn't voice. "Then- I don't want any regrets."

The Headmaster had graced him with a worried stare for a while after that. Ultimately, he'd had another meeting after Harry, which interrupted them, but the substance of their conversation lingered around Harry's mind in the weeks after. He had meant what he said; he knew he was ready for more. Trudging around to classes and chatting with friends as if nothing had changed was… stifling. He felt buried under the weight of this 'normal life' act.

Harry closed his eyes with a sigh, pivoting his neck back and forth to stretch out the tense, sore muscles there. How long would Dumbledore make him wait? A few months? A year? Or two? Or, perhaps, until it was altogether too late? The thought made him feel sick.

The promise of _something_ coming had made it possible to plod through Snape's hellish lessons… through most of his schooling, really, but the longer he was forced the wait, the more his hope waned. It was getting exponentially more difficult to not go barmy from the pressure of it all.

For what it was worth, what he'd received that morning was a good sign, definitely, but it didn't necessarily mean...

Voices up ahead made his thoughts skitter to a halt, and he slowed his pace to a crawl as well. Though he knew that this was the realm of Slytherins, he hadn't expected to run into anyone so soon. Impulse had him straining his ears and, although he wasn't especially interested in doing so, he managed to catch a snippet of the conversation he'd wandered into.

"That may work on first years and your friends, Malfoy, but it won't work on me."

That voice… It was the same girl from class, the one who'd interrupted Snape.

A menacing sneer echoed down the corridor: One that commanded Harry's attention, ignited his interest anew. "Look, Mudblood, if you think you're safe just because Snape likes you-"

"Safe?" the word blurted from her, carried on a harsh laugh. "Whatever would make me think that?"

There was a long moment where Harry heard nothing at all, and when he chanced a glance down the corridor, all he saw was Malfoy standing with his shoulders squared. Although Harry couldn't see his face, he could only imagine the dour countenance he'd witnessed so many times gracing those ignoble features.

"If that's all," was the girl's bored dismissal as she hiked her bag's strap higher on her shoulder. "I'll be on my way. I have actual things I need to do."

There was a snarled reply following her pronouncement, which Harry didn't catch, and then the noise of someone walking away. The dull clack of heels on stone was approaching fast. A spike of panic struck him; he froze in place, hoping the gloomy corridor would conceal his identity.

The girl walked past him without a word, her blonde hair flowing behind her and catching the faint torchlight. It wasn't long until she disappeared down the corridor, and moments after that, Harry heard the sound of a second pair of footsteps marching off in the opposite direction. That was a blessing in and of itself; Harry didn't think he could handle a run-in with Malfoy. Harry steeled himself until he could no longer hear the sound of footsteps, and hurried himself in the direction he came from.

His mind was whirring. As he walked further along, he tried not to look back at the place the pair had once stood and now abandoned. He couldn't say for certain what any of that was about, but none of it boded well.

His head hurt. Now that he had been sufficiently distracted from his rage, and the pressure of holding in a scream had subsided, Harry felt exhausted. And, truth be told, worried. More than ever, he understood how important it was to protect his friends.

They were all that he had.

••••••••••

"Blimey, Harry. I always get lost in the dungeons past Potions," Ron said, after Harry told both him and Hermione everything that had happened. They were sat by the fire in the common room, Hermione doing homework, and Harry and Ron pretending to do so.

"You'd think after six years of attendance you'd know your way around," Hermione piped in, rather imperious, her quill flourishing at the end of a sentence.

Ron shot her a look, but seconds later glanced up, offering a hapless shrug in Harry's direction. "Why're you in Potions, anyway, Harry? I know Dumbledore pulled a favor and all, but-"

"No buts, really," Hermione interjected. "It's because he needs the class, Ron. For Auror training?"

The boy scowled. "All I _meant_ is it's not really necessary… Best thing to ever happen to you was getting that E. No reason to subject yourself to _that_ torture. It's not like the Ministry's going to say no to Harry Potter when he says he wants to become an Auror."

Cringing, Harry commented, "I want to get in because I earned it, not because I'm some Wizard Saint."

"I'm just saying," Ron quietly groused, ducking his head down into his essay.

"I know," he replied, scratching the back of his head. "It's just-"

"Yeah, yeah," Ron dismissed. "Couldn't be any worse than dealing with Snape, is all-"

"I think he gets your point," Hermione sighed as she lifted her head to look at Harry. "Though, Professor Snape did seem to be going out of his way to target you..."

Ron sat up, scoffing. "When _isn't_ he targeting Harry?"

Well, he certainly had a point there, but… "Pretty sure he doubly has it out for me, now that Dumbledore's forced him to break his own rules."

Hermione hesitated before speaking. "Maybe," she acknowledged. "He seemed to be trying to goad you, though."

"Again..." Ron interjected, "What else is new?"

Harry sighed. "Yeah, I think you're right. I mean, he destroyed my potion in front of _everyone_."

"The Professor is normally a mite more subtle, yes," Hermione observed, a crease in her brow. "But honestly, Harry, all he did was perform the charm you were meant to do fifteen minutes prior."

That made his hand pause in the middle of a Snitch he was doodling. "... Really?"

"The fact that you don't know that is concerning."

"Well- I, I knew that there was a charm. I just…" he faltered. "... didn't, er, look it up."

There it came, that tone of voice both he and Ron abhorred - a mother's brand of disappointment, borne on a sigh that said a great deal more than the single word she uttered: "Harry..."

"I know," he cut in, irritated. "You don't have to tell me."

"I'm not trying to lecture you," Hermione retorted, tones even. "But sixth year is different. There's a stricter need for self guidance. You may have been able to skirt by before, but not doing the assigned readings, or practices, before class - it can make the difference between passing and failing. It's like uni, Harry."

He'd heard all this before… _last year_. Then, it had all been "Harry you'll have to take school work more seriously now that we're in fifth year" and "your O.W.L.s are crucial to determining what your marketable job skills will be". All true, of course, but- she just didn't understand.

"Right," was all he said, eyes averted and frown in place, hoping she would drop it.

"Come on, Hermione, lay off," Ron charged in to defend him. "He does one thing wrong, and you completely lose your head."

"I'm only trying to help," she countered with a huff, noticeably ruffled.

"How's it helpful to prod at him like that? Especially after what happened last-" cutting himself off abruptly, Ron offered Harry an apologetic look.

Hermione threaded her fingers together, eyes downcast, and there was a half minute of lull in their conversation before Harry spoke. "It's okay. You don't have to tiptoe around me. And… I know you're trying to help, Hermione. You tried to do that in class, too. So… thanks. And, erm, sorry."

Her smile dismissed him; there was no need to apologize. Moments later, she pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't suppose Snape was really making that scene as a teaching moment, anyway." With a tilt of her head, she looked down at her essay again, her voice growing more remote. "Even if he was flaunting the lesson to you."

"You're dangerously close to saying he has a point, 'Mione," Ron warned.

Although Hermione shot him a glare, she didn't dignify that accusation with a response. More or less, she was focused on Harry - though he couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing. "Like I said earlier, Professor Snape was definitely going… above and beyond to draw a response from you."

"Well… There was a condition to my receiving special treatment to get in his class."

"Let me guess," Ron balked; though, in seconds, Hermione beat him to the punch.

"So he's trying to force you to make a problem of yourself?" she questioned, incredulous. "That's… Maybe you _should_ tell the Headmaster about this."

"Looks like I'll get a chance to, when I meet with him tonight." Harry brandished a small note from his pocket and waved it in front of them.

"What, really? Lemme see," Ron demanded. Harry passed him the small, wrinkled parchment, and his eyebrows rose. "Bit short, isn't it? And after curfew?"

Hermione proffered a patient hand to Ron and, when he was done hemming and hawing over it, she looked it over as well. "What do you suppose he wants to meet with you for, Harry?"

"I mean, last time I talked to him, I… asked to be in the Order."

"Aren't you already?" Ron pointed out. "Sort of?"

"Yeah, but- I'm tired of being _sort of_ a part of everything. I think he might make me a full member."

Their reaction was a bit underwhelming. Hermione's lips were pursed, as they usually were when she was thinking, and Ron full-on groaned, saying, "Too bad my mum would box my ears if I even thought about it."

Harry's expression was halfway between a smile and a grimace. "I'm not so sure she won't do the same to me, when she finds out."

"Oh, she definitely will," he agreed. "I don't envy you in that, but-! A full Order member! How do you suppose they'll swing that?"

Hermione finally spoke. "With some difficulty, I imagine. You're not licensed to Apparate, and I would think that your schooling, and your identity really, would pose some problems."

He… hadn't really thought about any of that. Feeling a bit put out, Harry replied, "Well, I'm sure Dumbledore's got it sorted. He knows what he's doing."

"'Course he does," Ron concurred, leaning back on the couch. "Though, d'you think Dumbledore will take care of Malfoy if he knows about how the prat's running his gob?"

He couldn't hold back a grimace. "Maybe? I mean, he all but told me to drop it the last time I brought him up. Said Snape's taking care of it."

"Pff, I'll bet he is," was Ron's derisive rejoinder. "Taking care to make sure that Malfoy becomes a proper little Death Eater. If you ask me, Snape's probably taught him a thing or two about how to 'take care' of Mugg-"

"Ronald!" Hermione reprimanded in a sharp whisper. "You shouldn't talk about a Professor like that, especially so _loudly_."

Ron dismissed her with a wave of his arm. "Well, it's _true_ -"

" _Anyway_ ," Hermione interjected with more force this time, gazing pointedly in Harry's direction. "It might be wise to inform the Headmaster, at least, that you witnessed him threatening a student. Who was it again?"

He shrugged in response. "I've seen her around classes, but not really er… talked. She's a... Slytherin, actually."

"Slytherin?" Ron questioned. "But you said Draco called her… y'know." Perhaps out of habit, his eyes swooped to Hermione, albeit briefly, as if he wanted to gauge her reaction. Hermione, however, didn't seem to react at all. Her eyes remained fixed on Harry, though distant, expression pensive.

"Yeah," Harry sighed, "Malfoy's on a rampage, though, so who knows?"

"I don't know much about her," Hermione finally said. "I mean, there's rumors. I don't know how true they are, though."

When he spoke, it was with an abashed curiosity. Considering how many untrue stories about him were in relentless circulation, it felt odd to be engaging with hearsay. "Rumors?" Harry murmured, expectant.

"Well," Hermione shifted in her seat, her discomfort pronounced. "I don't know anyone from her house, so I can't say for certain. Padma said she heard from a friend of hers in Ravenclaw about that girl being suspended. I couldn't say for what reason. Just that she's been gone for a couple of years."

Ron let out a long whistle, arms crossing.

"I didn't know you could be suspended at Hogwarts," Harry admitted.

Ron piped up. "Yeah, it's not exactly common. It's usually only when someone's done something that should get them expelled, but their rich Mummy and Daddy complained to the Board."

Considering her run in with Malfoy, it didn't seem likely, but there was no way to be certain. "Well, she is Slytherin. So you never know."

"If she's Slytherin, then we definitely know," Ron balked. "Their whole deal is weaseling out of trouble for the shit things they do."

Harry couldn't argue with that, but yet another scandalized whisper came from Hermione: " _Ron!_ "

"Well," Harry interrupted, in an effort to preemptively distract them from an argument. "I just wondered, since she seemed to come out of nowhere. Curious as to what happened."

"I mean, it's hard to know. She apparently left school around the time the Triwizard Tournament was starting, so…" The smile on her face was meek as she offered Harry a hapless shrug.

"So a lot was going on," Harry finished for her. "It's strange; what year is she, even?"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "It's difficult to tell."

"Who cares?" Ron groused, his exhaustion with the conversation clear. "That stuff about Malfoy is way more important."

"Right," Harry concurred, acknowledging that they'd veered from the point. "Thing is, if Dumbledore won't do anything about Malfoy… Then what?"

Hermione shared a significant look with Ron. There was a moment of disquiet between them, a symptom of a lack of clear direction. When she finally addressed Harry, the crestfallen way in which she spoke belied the optimism she tried to convey. "It's possible that Dumbledore really does have the matter in hand."

"I just think he's barmy for trusting Snape at all," Ron remarked.

Harry couldn't help but agree. "I suppose we'll find out soon enough," he said, gripping the note stashed away in his pocket.

••••••••••

The halls of Hogwarts were quiet, except for the sound of Harry's energetic jogging. Just before curfew, there weren't many students milling about, but, somewhere along the path to the Headmaster's office, he'd finally allowed his excitement to surface (a feeling he'd denied himself for the greater portion of the day). After weeks of hearing nothing from Dumbledore, he had been summoned. And that mention of his invisibility cloak? Quite mysterious.

The object in question was stashed away in his school bag, which banged against his thigh with each of his footfalls. He'd hardly looked at it in ages, and it'd been gathering dust at the bottom of his trunk, considering he had been on his best behavior the last month. Running through the halls, he felt more free than he had since school began.

When he arrived at the entrance to the Headmaster's office, he was breathing hard from sprinting up the stairs. Harry gasped the password he'd used two weeks prior, watching the gryphon statue, eager.

It didn't budge.

Harry leaned his palms against his knees, craning his neck to stare at the entrance. Blowing out puffs of air, he slowly got his breathing under control. Then, enunciating as clearly as he could, he recited again: "Jubilant Jellies."

… Nothing.

Perplexed, Harry stood up straight, arms falling against his sides. Considering Dumbledore hadn't given him another password, he'd assumed… He took the rumpled note from his pocket to examine it.

 _Harry- My office, ten in the evening._

 _Bring your cloak. - A.D._

It was ten, almost exactly, and here he was, fully prepared. So… What was he meant to do? Guess the password? Just the thought of that was daunting; wizards had such an absurd amount of different sweets that Harry could spend the rest of his life listing them.

He scuffed his feet at the entrance for several minutes, hands shoved deep in his pockets, with a vain hope that Dumbledore would divine his arrival and let him up. However, nothing. The statue merely stared at him, silent and mocking. Harry grimaced.

Walking right up to the broad wing of the gryphon, Harry sighed. He began to repeatedly check the time with a mumbled _Tempus_ , the incantation uttered with an increasing anxiety as the minutes ticked past.

10:05... 10:07... 10:12...

By the time fifteen minutes had come and gone, and he'd circled the width of the hall twenty times, Harry was properly fed up with waiting, not to mention jittery, considering it was now after hours. The torches nearby had dimmed and sputtered out while he'd been standing there, leaving him with nothing but the dull moonlight that sat prim and unimpressive in the windows nearby.

The castle was old and creaked and groaned often when it settled in at night, but Harry's ears, more accustomed to illicit forays after hours, were attuned to the sudden presence of footsteps… ones that were approaching, and quickly. The clack of low heels likely signaled Professor Sprout, who tended to be more understanding, but could also be Professor Sinistra, who was decidedly less so.

Harry experienced a moment of panic before he remembered he had his Invisibility Cloak with him. Unstuffing it from his bag with haste, he pulled it over top his head, taking care to hunch to conceal his feet. Instinct had him back into the alcove, beneath the gryphon's wing, his eyes on sharp watch of the corridor for any movement. The hall fell into an eerie quiet - peculiarly, he could no longer hear the footsteps - and then… There! It was too dark to pinpoint any of the passing professor's defining features, but they appeared to be walking carefully along, wand-light held aloft. As their form receded, Harry blew out a relieved exhale, and refocused himself on the problem of getting into the Headmaster's office. While his cloak was handy, he'd rather not spend the rest of the night dodging curfew patrols.

It wasn't like Dumbledore to overlook a detail like this. And, too, since he knew Harry was coming, he should have at least been reminded when Harry failed to appear. So, what was this about? As much as the Daily Prophet liked to paint Dumbledore as a senile old coot, Harry knew that just wasn't true. Something else was going on.

For one, the whole way this had come about was dodgy. Just this one small note delivered to him at breakfast that very morning. He had no guarantees it had even come from the Headmaster. Harry realized with an unpleasant twist of his insides that the clues that had brought him here were pretty slim. Considering it was just signed "A.D.", anyone could really have written it, even a student. Seemed a bit odd for Dumbledore to ask him to bring his cloak like that, too. If the note was written by someone else, then that reference was entirely lost, instead becoming a warning about chilly weather.

Mindful not to make a sound, he looked at the note once more, angling it toward the scant moonlight, though he needn't have bothered - as he looked down at the words, they started to glow with blue light. Harry's hand shook from the awkward angle he was holding, but the glow trailed behind, sluggish and smoke-like.

Well. That was…something. Harry waved the paper this way and that, and the glow persisted. The patrolling teacher had long since passed, and Harry chanced stepping back out of the shadow of the statue to examine further. Pulling the cloak off himself, he inspected the note for possible clues. It did seem to be Dumbledore's handwriting, if Harry's memory served… Though as he was squinting at the note, he realized- It wasn't glowing any longer.

Harry stood still, eyes darting between the paper in one hand, his cloak in the other. He draped the cloak back over his head, raising the note up, and sure enough, the words began to glow again.

With a small, intrigued smile, Harry donned the cloak once more. Even though he'd been a part of this world for five years, magic never ceased to amaze. If anything, this at least confirmed that it was Dumbledore who sent the message; not many people knew his invisibility cloak existed, much less how to attune magic to react to it.

Well, if Dumbledore had taken the time to delineate a hidden magic that reacted to his cloak... That meant there had to be other hidden things as well, right? Perhaps in the note itself? It seemed a good starting place as any and, with a determined gleam in his eye, Harry traced his wand along the edge of the note, muttering: " _Revelio!_ "

He'd expected new words to scrawl themselves on his note. Instead, he was caught off guard when, out of the corner of his eye, something else flashed bright blue. When he turned to look, he took a step back. Out of the gryphon statue protruded a ghostly duplicate, whose neck was stretched outward in Harry's direction. The head of it flailed around disturbingly, its feathered breast heaving with breath and its beak stretching wide as it opened and closed. It massive wings shivered and unfurled, but despite its frenetic movement, not a sound could be heard; no rustle of feathers nor screech from its throat.

Hary brandished his wand at it and, as he lifted it up to chin level, the ethereal gryphon ceased its frantic thrashing, instead staring straight ahead at him. But- that… couldn't be right. It couldn't be looking at him; after all, he was invisible.

Though, perhaps it had seen him don the cloak, and simply knew where he had last been standing. Carefully skimming the bottom of the cloak along the ground, Harry moved off to one side, not taking his eyes off the spectre before him. Strangely, though… It didn't take its eyes off him either.

His breath caught. The gryphon's gaze was unblinking and trained directly on him. How… how was it able to see him? There were plenty of times he had hidden from the school ghosts, and none of them had been able to sense him. This was… another thing entirely.

It opened its beak between small, precise movements of its body, performing a soundless articulation. The ghost gryphon tilted its head one way, then the other; its curious entreaty was reminiscent of when Buckbeak used to squawk and chirp at him, asking for food.

"Well," Harry grumbled, "I don't have any food."

The animal pulled back with a proud lift of its head, as if it had understood what he said. Then, it offered a prolonged, muted screech, before looking, expectantly, at Harry.

"You have no voice," he noted. "Is it… a silencing charm?"

Harry stepped back again as the gryphon suddenly reared up on its haunches, beating its wings once before resuming its previous position.

"Right, er…" he glanced down the hallway. If he lifted the charm, the animal would probably be noisy. At the same time, though, the prospect of allowing it to struggle in silence was… uncomfortable, in the least. Beside that, even if it did cause a ruckus, Harry still had his cloak.

He stepped up closer to the apparition, cautious. When he was a mere few feet away, Harry raised his wand, uttering the words, " _Finite Incantatem_."

The gryphon released a test squawk. No sound emerged.

Harry frowned. He was certain he'd done it right; _Finite_ was a fairly routine spell to use in classes where student errors were common. But… A snatch of memory caught at the frayed edges of his thought. When the patrolling professor had passed earlier, directly by his hiding spot, the sound of their footsteps had ceased entirely. Professor Flitwick once mentioned something about silencing charms being placed on an area, instead of a single subject... Could that be it, then? He couldn't, for the life of him, remember what it was called. Hermione would know.

Well, nevermind what Hermione would know.

He looked around, having no idea how to identify where the area actually was, if that was the case. Did he need to know how big it was? Was there a special thing he had to do for area spells? Thus far, all his teachers had pretty well glossed over the subject.

Well, considering it was only a _Finite_ charm and it wouldn't hurt to try, Harry lifted his wand again, modifying his wand movement to encompass the floor all around him and saying the incantation very clearly:

" _Finite Incantatem!_ "

He heard a rustle like leaves, and the click of hard talons on the stone floor. Harry lifted his head and the gryphon looked down at him, expelling a low trill.

His face split into a smile. He had done it! "I can hear you," he whispered, his elation creeping into his voice.

"And I you," the gryphon responded, a deep, human voice emanating from its opened beak.

Taken aback, Harry stared. "You… can _talk_?"

"A little," was its enigmatic reply. "I bear a message from Albus Dumbledore."

A bit mystified, Harry did not say anything. The gryphon continued: "It is a question. You must answer to gain entry."

Its voice was serene, but powerful. The resonant tones seemed to reach down into some part of Harry that he couldn't define. "Let's have it, then," he ordered, not sure what to think.

The gryphon lifted itself to a more refined, proud stance, its neck stretched with regal posture. "Which is your greatest regret? Failure to preserve what you love, or inability to avenge what you have lost?"

Of all the things Harry might have been expecting… _that_ was definitely not it. His jubilation of a few moments before vanished. That phrase… _failure to preserve_ … Harry's thoughts careened to Sirius - the memory settled with a chill, as it always had, to the back of his neck. His godfather's daring. The green light. The collapse. The veil.

Most days, he could get by not thinking about it. It was easier to breathe if he didn't consider what he'd witnessed and the horrifying missteps which had led up to it. Still, now that the floodgates had opened, Harry couldn't help the tears that sprung into his eyes, nor the swell of fury in his heart. It had been one person, one wand, one spell, which had taken his hopes away. His brighter future, which he had yearned for since as long as he could remember, was eclipsed by the shadow of a single act of murder.

Life was cruel. He knew that well enough already. But even surrounded by the death and destruction she had caused, he hadn't been able to kill Bellatrix Lestrange. In light of that, his own weakness seemed cruelest of all.

Using a voice hoarse with emotion, Harry growled, "To _avenge_ what I have lost."

The ethereal gryphon inclined its head, and it seemed to glow brighter before saying, "So be it. You may proceed."

Harry took in a stabilizing breath. The ghostly vision vanished, leaving only the still, stone version behind. In a moment, the staircase began to spiral upward. He did not waste time; he stood on the uppermost step, impatient to reach the office.

When he threw open the door, Dumbledore was sitting at his desk. The Headmaster appeared as if he was about to say something, but Harry cut him off with an accusatory point of his finger, "What the hell was that just now?!"

"Harry…"

"I _thought_ ," he spat, embittered, "that you wanted to be more 'honest and open' with me. Isn't that what you said?"

"It is," the older man wheezed, leaning forward in his chair. "Please… sit down."

Frustrated, Harry did so, his clenched fists resting on the caps of his knees. Dumbledore looked at him for a moment, his spectacles shining in the light from the fireplace.

"I understand why you may feel upset, Harry. However, you did request to be a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and therefore you were given the test that all members before you have taken."

At that, his ire quieted into bewilderment. "A test? How…? I mean, not everyone has an Invisibility Cloak."

Dumbledore chuckled, despite the tension in the atmosphere. "I would venture to say that _no one_ does." He cleared his throat. "However, the test is tailored to the applicant."

"I didn't know that the Order had an _audition_ ," was Harry's grumpy reply. "You'd think I would've done enough already to recommend me."

"Not an audition," the Headmaster clarified, "but… an analysis."

He huffed. "What, were you just watching me this whole time?"

"No. Only listening."

A significant moment of time passed where Harry waited and Dumbledore, as always, watched. "... _Well?_ "

Dumbledore's head canted. "Hm?"

"Did I pass, or what?"

"I have not decided."

Dumbledore's words smacked him back against his seat with all the brutality of a bludger. Harry's reply came out as more of a whine than he would've liked. "Why?"

"Truthfully?" the Headmaster prompted.

"Yes?" What else? He'd had enough of lies!

"As the leader of the Order," he began, choosing his words carefully. "I would like nothing more than to utilize your talents. You displayed remarkable instinct and ingenuity, qualities which are invaluable to our cause. As an educator, I can take pride in your ability to tackle problems which do not have altogether straightforward solutions."

The praise was a little… Harry didn't quite know how to react. The urge to stammer out some bit of gratitude was automatic, but Dumbledore allowed no room to speak.

"However," Dumbledore sighed. "As someone tasked with your well-being, the decision is not so clear-cut."

The man stood up from behind his desk to meander around to the front of it. His robes were a muted purple, with shining silver moons scattered throughout. For Dumbledore, it was positively understated.

"It is my opinion that, while you may possess the _skills_ of an Order member, you do not possess the temperament of one."

Another blow, this one perhaps stinging more considering the delicate way in which it was said. Harry's jaw clenched as he stared at Dumbledore's shoulder. "I… did what you said. I haven't caused any trouble in Potions."

"That is not what I am referring to," the Headmaster explained, mild. "Rather, the question that was posed to you regarding your regrets."

Harry's stomach dropped. "That-!? How can you say that was wrong, when you want me to kill Voldemort?"

"It is not a matter of _what_ you do, but rather _why_ you do it."

"Because Voldemort's an evil prick who murders people, that's why! What other reason do you want?!"

"Harry, calm yourself," came Dumbledore's mellow admonishment. "I do not mean to imply that the very purpose for which the Order was created is wrong. You, however, are easily controlled by your emotions, which can only work to your detriment."

In an instant, Harry deflated. "Then… what you mean is: I failed the test. I'm not… going to be an Order member."

"Not exactly," the Headmaster corrected. "As I said, I have yet to decide."

"You just said yourself I'm not ready," Harry complained, eyes drifting to the rug.

"True enough." Dumbledore's voice was distracted; he seemed to be deep in contemplation, since his next word was spoken more to himself. "Though..."

Noticing the opening, Harry went on the offensive. "Please, sir," he entreated, looking up at the other man. "I'll do whatever it takes. Just please, let me try."

Dumbledore sighed, squinting at the fire in the grate before his gaze returned to Harry. "Whatever it takes. I'd counsel you to remember that you said so yourself."

"I mean it," Harry declared, firm. "Whatever you ask me to do, I'll do it."

"Very well." The older man's robes swished as he stepped up to the fireplace mantel, his wrinkled hand grasping a palm full of Floo powder.

"Severus," he pronounced with clarity, tossing the powder into the grate. "If you'd be so kind as to join me in my office."


	2. Cleo

Thank you so much to Henry and Jacob, our lovely betas. We would be nowhere without you. So much love.

••••••••••

It was strange to be back at Hogwarts.

The sights, the sounds, the _magic_ … All unfamiliar once more in a rare recapturing of her first year, watching the spires of the school emerge over the trees as the boats slid smoothly across the lake. Everything appeared majestic - fantastical, even - but, by that same token, almost unreal. Distant and untouchable. Dream-like.

Cleo was beginning to second-guess her decision to come back to school. Of course, there were things she had loved about Hogwarts, but they seemed hazy and indistinct after all this time. The train ride had been hellish ordeal: Sitting alone, each painful mile that separated her from home crowded around her and loomed at her compartment door, propped up uncomfortably against her sides. Years acclimated to life at home made it all the more difficult to accept being parted from her family for ten prolonged months. It had only been eight hours by then, and she'd already felt spent.

And, when Cleo stepped into the castle for the first time in two years, it became very clear that this was no longer a place she recognized.

Or- whatever. Maybe that was hyperbole. She was prone to it. Her mother had said much the same. _You're acting like we're sending you into exile._

Though, Mum could never really know what it was like at Hogwarts, could she?

She'd never understand what it felt like to arrive at Hogsmeade station under the bleary drape of evening. The pervasive disquiet. The reserved optimism. The hushed wonder. The skittish camaraderie. The experience had largely remained unchanged from when she was eleven: The castle stood, a Colossus, large and imposing, its maw stretched wide and welcoming to approaching students; every time she passed through those gates, Cleo couldn't shake the feeling of being swallowed whole.

And now, she didn't even have the luxury of anyone waiting for her on the other side. No one to ground herself with, no one to help her reorient. Inadvertently, she'd stumbled into adulthood and all its horrendous trappings - including the harrowing prospect that, in the end, time itself did not have the courtesy to hold its breath.

It went on without her. Friends graduated, priorities adjusted, things… changed. Inevitably. Even the atmosphere of the school had, in her absence, distorted into something wholly alien.

That's what she liked about home: She knew where things stood. Hogwarts, as far as she was concerned, was new terrain all over again. One she'd have to traverse on her own.

That evening on the first night, Dumbledore had handled her with care, as if one misplaced word would shatter her. To his credit, she felt like it.

He waved his hand over the top of an empty porcelain bowl at the head of his desk and, within seconds, it was teeming with hard, yellow candies. "Sherbet Lemon?" he offered, a knowing gleam poised over the peak of his half-moon spectacles.

It was odd, how comforting that was. The familiarity of it, at least. Not _everything_ had changed.

Cleo shook her head with a sheepish grin. "No, thank you. I'm sorry. I didn't think I'd be this nervous."

He dismissed her with a dainty wave of his hand, that affable half-smile overtaking his features. "Considering your situation? I would say that is perfectly natural, my dear."

Right. Sure. Though, she couldn't make herself respond, eyes unfocused and tethered to the salmon colored blur of Dumbledore's robes.

Leaning forward, the Headmaster allowed his head to dip. "Might I have the pleasure to be the first to welcome you back to Hogwarts?"

She blinked, glancing to his face. It was a good start, she supposed. "Thanks," she acknowledged. "Didn't think I'd be back." Her fingers squeezed her chair's armrests in a brief spike of anxiety.

If he'd noticed her slip up, he didn't let on. "I imagine the adjustment must seem daunting. But!" At this, Dumbledore's expression became reassuring. "Do remember that you won't have to do it alone. We are here to assist you."

He meant it. Of course he did. Though, all the same, it was only a marginal comfort. Still, this wasn't the time for personal angst; he was her Headmaster, not her therapist. This meeting was meant to be strictly business. "Right, uhm, you mentioned when we were writing each other that I should, ah-" her body bent to the side as she reached to dig into her bag, "- bring my leave of absence paperwork, timetable request and O.W.L. results so we could make sure my schedule was appropriate and officially finalize it…"

At this, she produced a manilla folder from her bag, belatedly realizing how ridiculous it looked only after she'd set it on his desk. It was garish among the archaic decor and, embarrassed, she pulled it back on her lap, only to remove the papers and place them where the folder had been before.

"If I'm honest with you, I'm only really concerned with Potions and Herbology," she put in, a nervous hand combing itself through her hair. "I'm fine with either dropping or being put in non-N.E.W.T. courses for the others."

The Headmaster scooped up the papers with delicate precision, surveying them with interest. "Your O.W.L. results seem to corroborate your interests, Miss Croft," he observed, before glancing up at her. "However, if I may make a suggestion… While wandwork does not appear to be your strong suit, I would advise letting Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts remain on your timetable. Your grades would allow you into the professors' respective N.E.W.T. courses."

Cleo leaned forward, countenance self-effacing. "Would N.E.W.T. Defense really be necessary? It's just- I'm rubbish at dueling, and I can't even produce an offensive spell-"

He lifted a hand to forestall her. "I think, in light of current events, it is wise to have more knowledge than less. And there may come a time when knowing how to defend yourself will become invaluable."

Ah.

Cleo let out a sigh, a soft plop sounding as she fell back in her chair. She considered the Headmaster a bit longer before her head tilted and lips twisted. "Yeah. That display at dinner was certainly… interesting."

"It is nothing for you to worry yourself about," he instructed. Easy for him to say. "I am well able to bear the ire of those who disagree with me."

She wasn't concerned with _his_ well being, but she knew better than to correct him.

"For now, I am content for you to re-acclimate yourself to Hogwarts, and to do well in your studies. Is that something you think you can do?"

"I can certainly do my best," she promised with a forced chipper affectation, head lifted toward the ceiling. "I've got more than myself to think about, at any rate."

"Of course," he agreed. "Well, Miss Croft, I see no reason not to approve your timetable, though your Head of House will need to take a look at it as well."

"Oh, that's fine." There was a moment of hesitation before she glanced back into her bag, top row of teeth grazing her bottom lip. "Actually, there was one more thing…"

Dumbledore's gentle attention was wholly focused on her. "Yes?"

Her hands fidgeted in her lap. "You… also mentioned something about uhm," she broached, timid. "... a way to contact home? Is that, ah," she frowned, "still on the table?"

"I have made arrangements for you already," he reassured her.

She didn't know she was holding her breath until the air rushed from her, relieved. "Thank you, Headmaster. Really."

"No, thank _you_ , Miss Croft," Professor Dumbledore returned. "It is my pleasure to assist bright, promising students such as yourself."

She didn't know about that. But... Dumbledore was always exceedingly kind.

Especially to those who didn't really deserve it.

••••••••••

Even after a month into the school year, Cleo had found no opportunities to speak with her Head of House. It wasn't for a lack of trying, either. Every attempt hit a wall, with Professor Snape being either impossible to reach or refusing any attempt at contact forthright. The most she'd received was a brief note the first week, approving her timetable, but there was nothing to indicate that he would meet with her in person. From what she gathered, this had become a problem in general.

She was able to observe this herself when returning to the Slytherin common room at the end of the first night, only to discover Snape notably absent when the Head Boy and Girl were offering the new Slytherins orientation. Rumor stated that from last year onward Snape's presence had dipped into a gradual wane, first with a cut in office hours and private lessons, then with a drop in the frequency of his visits to the common room, until at last he'd abandoned most of his duties altogether.

Alright - perhaps not _completely._ But to students who had grown accustomed to a Head of House who took his position with the utmost severity, the variation was disrupting; some continued to struggle with the adjustment. From the outside, people could observe Slytherin's shift: The blatant refusal to sit in on meals, the distinct aversion of Dumbledore. Within the belly of the beast, however, more subtle things were at work.

Anyone could say what they desired of Hogwart's most reviled teacher, but his presence within his own House kept things in line. Without him, things had grown more and more chaotic. Slytherins found a freedom to act without reprimand; to start arguments, assert authority, even begin implementing pressure on _unwanted_ and _undesirable_ students.

When Cleo had arrived, she'd vowed a strict distance from politics. It wasn't a decision made lightly but, in the end, it was an impossible one nonetheless. She could no more distance herself from her identity than she could her own shadow. And, if the Welcoming Feast was anything to go by, tensions were at an all time high.

Somehow, she'd managed to land herself smack in the middle of it. It was just her luck, really, returning at the quintessential rise of a genocidal fascist.

Her inability to stay neutral was, perhaps, what had prompted her to speak up in Potions, despite unfavorable circumstances and at the risk of causing an upheaval in the only class that managed to give her respite.

She'd heard plenty about Professor Snape's tendency of humiliating Harry Potter, though she'd never had the chance to witness it herself before. From the stories she'd heard, this seemed comparatively mild; it was perfectly understandable that he reprimand anyone who wasn't careful with this potion. One wrong move would easily turn it corrosive.

Still, it felt like there was something more to this. Snape's eyes swept across the gathered students. Calculating. In that instant, Cleo surmised - this was not just a question to see who was paying attention; it was a test of ambition, laid out like bait, just to see who might take it.

If she wanted her Head of House's attention, then here was a golden opportunity. It was that rationalization, at least, that prompted her to speak in the first place.

In the end, however, her efforts weren't remotely what Professor Snape had in mind.

Nor was _this_ the attention she sought.

"Miss Croft. A word."

His accosting froze her in place. "Professor?"

He stood just ahead of his desk, arms crossed before him as he watched the rest of the students file out the classroom door, his displeasure plain.

When it was only the two of them left in the room, the professor's gaze returned to her. "Never do that again."

"Sir?"

His next statement was carried on a sneer. " _Undermine_ me."

Her head shook, expression feigning confusion. "Sir, I honestly don't know what-"

His eyes narrowed. "Is that the hint of a _lie,_ I detect?" he commented, voice pitched low. "I believe I made it quite clear that I am _not_ a man to be fooled."

"What was of concern to _me,_ " she asserted, facing him squarely, "was to finish my potion. Properly. As is the purpose of this N.E.W.T. level course. I apologize if, to that end, it appeared as if I purposefully attempted to undermine your authority. That wasn't how I intended it at all."

The professor hummed a doubtful acknowledgement. Then, taking a different track, he said, "You are aware that it is to _your_ benefit, if Potter gives up this class?"

She squinted. "What Harry Potter does or doesn't do isn't a concern of mine," she told him, firm. "I have no intention of allowing external factors, disruptive or not, to inhibit my performance."

"Rightly so," he stated, matching her stern tone. "Wouldn't want any wayward attachments clouding your judgment."

She watched him, mouth slanted in a dangerous half-scowl. _That_ was low. Even for him. "Was my work unsatisfactory, Professor?" she inquired, careful to keep her voice neutral. "I'd be more than receptive to hear any proper, _appropriate_ critiques you may have."

"Your _work_ was passable," was his retort. "This is merely a warning, Miss Croft."

"I'll endeavor to meet your standards," she assured him. "Though, perhaps I'd benefit from your consideration?"

"Consideration," he intoned, the word seeming to leave an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Allowing the facade to slip, Cleo stepped toward him, more urgent in her speech. "I've been asking for _weeks_ to meet with you," she reminded him.

The man performed an exaggerated glance around the room. "We are meeting now, unless I am mistaken?"

"A _proper_ meeting," she insisted, "with you actually _acting_ like my Head of House."

At that, Snape sighed through his nose. "I cannot currently take office hours."

"I'm in my sixth year and you oversee my academics," she emphasized, adamant. "You can't keep ignoring me."

There was clearly something in her statements which irked him, since his frown twitched further downward. "And, I assume you believe everything to be about _you?_ "

"What do you want from me?" The words burst from her, incredulous, bordering on desperate. "An apology? I'm _sorry,_ okay? I'm _really_ sorry. I made a mistake and I didn't listen to you. There is nothing I can do to take that back." For the first time, she squared her shoulders to him, unflinching. " _That_ is a decision I have to live with, but I want to make the best of it."

Snape surveyed her expression, mouth set in a grim line. There was an eerie silence in the classroom for the space of several seconds, the lack of bubbling cauldrons lending an off-kilter slant to their encounter. At length, the professor's gaze broke away from her as he pivoted around to the other side of his desk. "Anything further?" was his dismissive query. "I have a class in ten minutes."

"Please," she implored, hands gripping the strap of her bag tight. "Just one meeting. Please, Professor."

He let out an abrupt sigh as if he'd been holding it in the past minute and a half. " _Fine_. Nine forty-five, my office. I would advise _against_ wasting my time, or you will come to regret it."

Her head dipped into a singular, curt nod. "Yes, of course. Thank you, sir."

Snape waved her away, his attention already elsewhere. But it hardly mattered- _finally_ , she was going to be able to speak to him.

At that thought, she let out a sigh of relief, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes as she exited the classroom. She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder before heading in the direction of the common room.

The dungeons had always had a subterranean mystique; the sounds of the rest of the castle weren't present within the narrow, maze-like halls which made up Slytherin's domain. In a way, it was a comfort to be able to escape into silence, to forget the chaos above when things became overwhelming.

Then again, silence also had the tendency to magnify any disturbance.

There were footsteps behind her, synchronized with her own. Slowing her pace, she felt both vindicated and disturbed when the other footfalls matched hers. It was paranoid, but she maneuvered through a series of random, aimless detours in an effort to reassure herself, only to find it doing the opposite. Her pursuer was obstinate, following hot on her trail.

Whoever it was, they weren't exactly subtle.

She turned to face the seemingly vacant hallway, scowling. "Is this fun for you?" she questioned into the emptiness, arms stretched against her sides.

A surly blonde withdrew from one of the alcoves, shoulder in a casual bent against the wall, fingers curled around a book that hung precariously over his left hip. "Of course. My, nothing gets past you, does it?"

Her stare was unwavering. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

Every move he made was calculated; from the slight eyebrow raise, to the way his arm elegantly heaved upward as he surveyed the cover of the book. "'Chemistry and the Living Organism'," he recited, smirking. She observed as his patrician profile jerked toward her, carrying that smarmy sneer with it, more amused than was comfortable. "Interesting choice."

Her blood ran cold as one of her hands plunged into her bag, fingers probing to find the familiar, ragged texture of a certain book spine. With dread, she realized it wasn't there. She hadn't even noticed it was gone.

He turned the book over on its back, lips curling into a thoughtful frown. "I don't care to slum it often," he prefaced before his pale grey eyes locked on her, imperious. "But I must admit, considering how often I see you so _engrossed_ in this, I felt compelled to have a look myself." His expression darkened. "I wasn't disappointed."

Her stare darted to the cover. Swallowing, she lifted an arm, expectant. "I'd like my book back, please."

He stood there, watching her. For a good while, they were at an impasse, neither of them budging from where they stood. Then, breaking the tension with a frustrated sigh, Cleo stepped toward him, reaching for the text.

In some childish ploy to entertain himself, he lifted the book up and away from her. Her mouth opened to object, but he was quick to relent, relinquishing the book into her hands with an impish leer.

She made quick work of distancing herself from him, back turned as she opened the front cover of the text. However, when only the title stared back at her, she wheeled around, glowering.

"Give it _back._ "

His countenance was suddenly neutral. "I'm not sure I understand-"

"Don't," she rebuked. "I'm not in the mood. _Give it back._ "

"Oh," the boy feigned a gasp, as if he'd just recalled something. "You mean this?" He produced a small square of paper from his robes, clutched between his fore and middle finger. "Forgive me, I didn't think it meant anything, considering the fact you so _carelessly_ left it behind-"

"I _said,_ I'm not in the mood," she threatened.

But he continued speaking as if she hadn't said anything at all. "- or perhaps not? After all, it _is_ rather heartfelt- I didn't know you had it in you, Croft. I had no idea _Gabriel_ meant so much to you."

A chill settled at the base of her spine, slithering down in a cold panic that threatened to unsteady her. Her defiance sounded dismal. "That may work on first years and your friends, Malfoy, but it won't work on _me._ "

There was a sudden shift in his demeanor. The nonchalance faded from him, overtaken by menace. "Look, _Mudblood,_ if you think you're safe just because Snape likes you-"

 _Liked_ her. What a joke.

"Safe?" she snorted with a self-deprecating laugh. "Whatever would make me think that?"

This had the unnerving effect of silencing him. However, soon, the tautness of his frame eased and he took a step forward, pressing the now-crinkled piece of paper against her chest. "Your display in class was bold," he remarked. "Did you get what you wanted? I _did_ notice you stayed after class-"

Her fingers grasped the edges of the paper, wrenching it from his palm with difficulty. However, he dropped his arm without resistance, leaving her room to breathe, to tuck the paper safely into her sleeve. "If that's all," she dismissed in a paltry attempt to sound unimpressed. "I'll be on my way. I have actual things I need to do."

She'd already begun walking away when Malfoy erupted in a vicious snarl aimed at her back: "Did I say we were finished, you-?!"

But whatever bile came on the coattails of that threat couldn't be heard. She'd proceeded halfway down the hall by then, quick in her pace, but careful not to burst into a full run, as much as her body desperately wished to.

The air burned through her lungs as she finally allowed herself to breathe deep, expression twisted and contorted in distress. She braced the book and her sleeve close against her chest, only barely registering the wisp of brown hair and round glasses that flinched against the wall as she passed the intersecting corridor. Someone watching. _Of course._

Not that it mattered, anyway. She just wanted to be as far from here as possible.

The next turn came fast and, as she released the breath she'd held back, Cleo sprinted away when she could no longer be seen.

••••••••••

A loud bang wrenched Cleo from reverie, and her eyes refocused on the Slytherin common room once more. A few of the rowdier fourth year boys were off in the corner, engaged in a game of Exploding Snap that was so uproarious that it drew the attention of the whole room.

She wasn't used to the atmosphere here anymore, not by a long shot. There was a time when the common room was a place of respite, peaceful as a library, if a little too dark and moody for a proper reading spot. When they still existed, Cleo's friends would idle away their time with her in the front parlor, gossiping in between essays, making complaints about class over stupid little board games.

Now, the room belonged to whomever exerted the most force to claim it.

"Idiots," the third year next to her seethed with a glower so heated that Cleo could only imagine he hoped it would combust the disruptive pair on the opposite end of the room.

The girl across from him, Jodie, turned the page of her textbook with a scowl. When she spoke, it was with a barbed voice, pitched higher above the din. "Not like anyone's trying to _study_ or anything!"

Cleo crossed her legs with a sigh made inaudible by the ruckus. "It's my mistake," she excused. "Should've realized the library was a more sensible choice."

Another girl on the far end of the couch watched the two boys, expression veiled. "Bet you I can hex 'em from here-"

Cleo tapped her foot against the edge of the table. "Erica," she called. "Not worth it. Focus."

Erica turned back around on the couch, disgruntled. "Focus? I can't even hear myself think!"

"We can still relocate," Cleo pointed out.

"And give them the satisfaction?" the boy, Leigh, objected with disgust. "Never."

Right then, another explosion bellowed across the room, causing Jodie to yelp and drop her Potions text.

"Oh _screw_ you guys!" Erica shouted, shoving herself over the back of the couch.

Leigh frowned as he dipped down, picking the dropped textbook from the floor. "You okay, Jodie?"

She took in a breath, teeth gritting. " _Fine,_ " she spat. "So _stupid._ If _Snape_ were here-"

"Well, he's not," Erica commented as she glanced over her shoulder at the rest of the group.

" _Obviously!_ " Jodie shot back, irritated.

"Okay," Cleo cut in, diplomatic. "Would it make you feel better if I went down and got him?"

Leigh scoffed. "What's the point?"

Jodie's jaw tightened as she leaned forward to snatch her textbook from his hands. "No, it'd be a waste of time," she stated, matter of fact. "It would kill an hour, he'd never show up, and I wouldn't be any closer to understanding Golpalott's Laws."

"You're _still_ on that?" Erica mocked. "It's really not that hard."

Leigh rushed to defend Jodie's honor. "Of course _you_ would say that."

Cleo's eyes closed. She wasn't in the mood to field any argument between thirteen year olds. Especially not amongst the pervasive noise. "What has you stuck?"

The girl brushed her hair behind her ear. She clearly didn't feel comfortable admitting her difficulty. "Well…" Her eyes darted to Erica, clearly waiting for another rebuttal, but when the other girl was silent, she continued, "I mean, the first one is no big deal, right? First law, all antidotes contain bezoars. Easy."

"Right," Cleo urged.

"Right," Jodie echoed, fiddling with a page in her textbook. "But then, the second one? I mean, it doesn't really… make sense?"

"The fact that all antidotes must contain the poison they treat?" Cleo asked, raising an eyebrow. "What part confuses you?"

"If all antidotes are meant to cure poisoning," she said, gaining steam, "then wouldn't having the poison in the antidote sort of… ruin the purpose?"

"Not in this case, no," Cleo told her. "For the purposes of magical antidotes, the poison becomes a very necessary component."

"Yeah, _Jodie,_ " Erica chimed in, a bit snobbish. "How else is the antidote supposed to identify what poison it's curing?"

Jodie puffed up, eyes narrowing. "Well, _sure_ , I guess-"

"I don't understand why you lot care to know every little detail," Leigh droned. "It works because it works, that's all that matters to me."

"And _that's_ why you'll never get better than an A in Potions," Erica sneered, her words punctuated by another loud bang from the corner.

"I'm not sure about identifying," Cleo smoothed over with a sigh. "It works more like..." She paused, a prominent frown overtaking her features.

Leigh barked out a laugh at her reluctance. "See? Even _the tutor_ doesn't know."

Cleo shifted in Jodie's direction, ignoring the slight. "Poisons, venoms - they're all unique toxins. No two toxins are exactly alike. They may end with the same result, but often how they… achieve that goal varies, understand?"

The girl crossed her legs, propping her chin on her palm as she considered this. "The goal of killing people, you mean."

"No need to be morbid," Erica criticized. "But yeah. _Killing people_."

She pushed the textbook toward them on the table to capture their attention. "The _point_ is - how these toxins cause harm happens in different ways. Certain toxins attack very specific parts of human physiology. Sometimes, you die," she noted with a significant glance, "and sometimes you don't, but the toxin's still causing some kind of harm somewhere. We have to think of the added toxin in the antidote as… the tracker, understand? You take a diluted amount and add it to the substance, and suddenly the antidote itself knows where to look for the poison."

There was a breakout of cheers and whoops by the Exploding Snap game, followed by three booming clacks in quick succession. Still, Cleo was pleased to see all three brains whirring. Surprisingly, it was Leigh who spoke first. "Sure, but it doesn't seem very efficient."

"Efficient?" Cleo asked.

Now that he was in the limelight, he looked as if he regretted speaking at all. "I mean," he soldiered on, defensive. "If bezoars just cure everything, then what's the point?"

At the risk of sounding ridiculous, Cleo took a second to exhale before resting her hands on her knees. "Because that's just how it works everywhere. Muggle or magical, panaceas - cure-alls - can't exist. One antidote could work for one type of toxin, while being entirely ineffective against another, understand? And bezoars- well, they don't work the way you think they do, anyway."

Erica cut in, snooty. " _Everyone_ knows that bezoars can cure any poison. That's why the first law says they're in _all_ antidotes!"

"That's actually not why at all," Cleo interrupted, even-keeled. "If that were so, antidotes wouldn't be necessary. There's a reason why bezoars are only used when a toxin has been _recently_ ingested. And why they're completely ineffective against toxins that _aren't_ ingested - venomous bites, for example. Because…"

"Because?" Erica prompted, impatient.

Cleo's nose scrunched. "Well - they don't cure anything, really. They work more like…" Activated charcoal, really, but… Her head canted as she twisted her lips in thought, concluding with an example more readily understood: "Like a sponge."

Jodie's head canted. "How come?"

"Bezoars are just a mass of indigestible… stuff, see? What makes them magical is what creature they come out of… since non-magical creatures, including humans, can develop them. But their function is to soak up the toxic substance in order to keep it from spreading around the body. And that's the role they take in antidotes."

"Right," Jodie intoned, albeit distantly, before her expression scrunched up into bewilderment once more. "But- okay, so the bezoar enhances the curative properties of the antidote, and the diluted poison tracks the toxin in the body but… What do you even _mean_?"

Cleo pursed her lips. "What do I mean by what?"

"Track it," Jodie clarified. "Track it to where? Why does it need tracking? Where does it go that it even needs to be tracked? Poison just… does what it does, right?" The girl paused a second, brow furrowing. "Wait, what does poison even _do?_ "

Cleo's head bobbed side-to-side as she considered this. "As I said, how a toxin harms you varies, because one may target your heart while another may target your kidneys or liver- some may even cause complications that severely injure but will result in death if not properly attended to. And that's not even covering _blended_ poisons that wreak havoc on different parts of the body at once-"

"Golpalott's _Third_ Law," Erica put in, preening.

Cleo wore a tired half-smile. "Right."

Jodie was chewing on the frills of her quill in thought. "Could you give an example, maybe?"

It took her a few moments of deliberation before she settled. "Venomous Tentaculas," she announced, abrupt, looking between each of the third years. "Do you know how they kill you?"

"Ugh," Leigh moaned, evidently reliving some painful memory. "Their mouths have great bloody fangs on."

Even Erica appeared affected, the corners of her mouth turned down. "Professor Sprout mentioned that they could swallow you whole."

"If you're the size of a _badger,_ maybe," Jodie corrected.

"But the venom," Cleo urged, trying to corral them back to the point. "What do you think it does?"

Silence followed this question. None of them made any outward indication that they didn't know, but simply watched her expectantly, their lack of chatter a stark contrast.

She looked at each of them in turn, patient, before answering. "So…" she hummed, before sighing. "When you touch, you can feel, right?" She stared out into the room, cringing. " _Obviously._ But there's a reason for that. If you can imagine, there's an entire system in your body that processes those sensations through, well - your nerves, yeah?"

Leigh's reply was deadpan. "We know what _nerves_ are. We're not _stupid._ "

She grimaced. "Right. So when a Tentacula bites you," she continued, her own hand clamping down on her wrist for added effect. "The venom targets your nervous system and… pushes it into overdrive. Everything seizes up, like… Like Petrificus," it felt like the most apropos example; she could probably spend all evening discussing sodium channels, concentration gradients, action potentials- "So it's not a flaccid paralysis, see? It's one that forces all your nerves to _constantly_ feel things. And in that paralysis, your other organ systems begin to shut down. Your heart stops beating; your lungs stop breathing. Everything you can think of just - _stops._ "

The three looked at one another, expressions grim. Jodie ventured, "That's… uhm, scary."

"Yeah," Erica concurred, a mite pale.

Leigh frowned. "Honestly, who cares?"

Cleo tilted her head. "What?"

"Why bother knowing all that?" he questioned, disgruntled. "You use the poison to track it, the bezoar to soak it up, so- What's it matter, all these useless details?"

Cleo looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. "It matters," she began, "because otherwise you can't figure out what to brew in order to combat that toxic effect. Understand? Knowing how the death occurs makes it possible to brew an antidote to prevent it from happening. You know what roots, what seeds, _whatever_ ingredients you have can be put together in order to combat the deadly effects. The bezoar is only one part of many."

"All the elements serve one purpose..." Jodie said, more to herself than anyone.

Erica's curiosity seemed rooted elsewhere, however. "Say, how come Professor Sprout never told us all that?"

"Because it's all very complicated," Cleo said. "Something only Potion Masters bother themselves with."

Leigh sat back in his chair, sullen. "Well Professor Snape's never mentioned anything like that either."

Jodie was flipping through her text rapidly. "What you said about Venomous Tentaculas- can you tell me what section it's in? I can't find it."

"Uhm, the symptoms of the bite should be at the beginning-"

"Yeah, I see those," she dismissed. "But what about that stuff about what it does to the nerves? I don't see it anywhere."

 _Shit._ Right. But, like-

"Well, I mean, that stuff about nerves," she remarked, "I'm inferring, slightly, y'know, with comparison to similar bites from other venomous animals and, uhm, knowledge _about_ human physiology and- it's not really in _these_ books."

"Then… where did you learn all this?" Jodie asked, polite.

"Muggle school," Cleo answered, careful.

Erica's eyes about popped out of her head. "You went to _Muggle_ school?!"

The girl's tone was unsettling enough for Cleo's muscles to tense on reflex. "... Yes."

Her next response wasn't any better; she actually _scowled._ "That's _awful._ "

"Yes, well," Cleo breathed, diverting her gaze to the textbook as she busied herself with turning a page. "I don't really-"

Another horrific bang reverberated against the walls of the common room. The three of them all performed a synchronized wince, and Erica burst out, "That's _it!_ I'm throwing that lot straight in the supply closet-!"

Leigh put a hand on her shoulder, hindering her. "It's _really_ not worth it."

"That weird room is scary and gross..." Jodie pointed out. "Besides, Filch is more like to hang _you_ up by your thumbs in there-"

"Uhm, excuse me?"

Cleo's head wheeled around, yanked by the little voice over her shoulder. What she found was an unassuming first year, stood straight, hands locked behind her back. Her hair was a collective of brown, wiry curlicues, a few falling in front of her eyes. Although appearing shy, her gaze was resolute, holding Cleo's with a forced confidence.

"Hello," Cleo greeted with a wan smile.

"Hi," the girl returned. "Can I talk to you?"

Cleo's head tilted. "Sure? What do you need?"

The girl looked at the other three students with a frown. "Not here," she insisted.

Cleo's stare fluttered, nonplussed, between the girl and the study group. When it settled on her again, Cleo leaned inward, lowering her voice. "Can I ask what this is about?"

"It's important," the girl supplied, unhelpful.

Cleo looked up again, this time to survey the occupants of the common room. She spoke as she did so. "Just a warning: I'm not a prefect, so if you need-"

"I _know_ you're not!" the girl exclaimed in a harsh whisper, impatient. "It's still important!"

Cleo winced. Okay. It was a little mean of her to just… assume. And it was that thread of guilt that led her to stand, without question, to excuse herself from the group and follow the kid. The girl took her hand with urgency, fingers clasped taut against hers, leading her out of the portrait that guarded the common room and through a seemingly random series of dungeon corridors. Cleo didn't know how long the two of them walked together in silence, but when they stopped, the girl stepped away to look both ways down the hall, on guard, before placing herself near Cleo again.

For the first year, it must have seemed like an unplottable and untrackable area of the dungeon they'd sequestered themselves in. For Cleo, who'd long since memorized the layout of the dungeons, it wasn't random at all.

But it was adorable, in a way. The drama of it. The attempt at subterfuge.

It enthralled the girl's voice when she spoke. "I heard what you said," she announced with gravity.

Cleo blinked. "What part?"

The girl's expression skewed itself all incredulous. How piteous it must have been for her to work with someone so clueless, Cleo mused. "The _Muggle_ part," she emphasized.

On edge again, Cleo drew her shoulders back, frowning. "What about it?"

The first year let out a long-suffering sigh. "You're not supposed to talk about it?" her voice lilted like she was delivering a reminder.

"I'm... not?"

The girl pressed her hands on her hips, looking Cleo over. "No… We're not supposed to talk about it at all."

"We?"

She let out an impatient exhale. "I'm like you?"

" _Like_ me?"

Clearly, she was growing more exasperated. "You _know._ "

Cleo's brow crinkled, bewildered, before it smoothed over as her breath rushed out of her on the advent of her realization. In a moment, she bent toward the girl so their faces were on the same level. "Oh- you're, uhm. You're Muggleborn?"

The word worked like an invoked spell and a panic shimmered over the girl's irises before she shushed Cleo with a firm hand pressed up against her face.

"Not so loud!"

Cleo's eyes darted to the warm palm drawn over her mouth. She knew this routine; it was comforting in a way difficult to describe, but the script remained the same. She didn't wrench the child's hand away, instead she nodded with an apologetic flair and waited for the girl to catch her breath. After a moment, she evidently trusted enough in Cleo's silence to drop her arm.

Cleo was careful to speak in a lower register that time. "I didn't know we weren't allowed to talk about it."

Grateful, the girl took on the same tone of voice. "It's not a school rule," she clarified. "But… don't you remember what Snape told you?"

What Snape told her?

Her confusion must have been obvious, since the girl continued, words flowing from her as if they'd jog a memory Cleo had misplaced. "Your first night in Hogwarts? You had to go talk to him in his office?"

She couldn't remember that at all- since it never happened. This was new.

There was no use in denying it, however. It would only serve to confuse the girl further. Instead, Cleo's hands propped themselves on her thighs as she anchored herself back up to her full height. "Your orientation, right?"

"Sorta."

"What'd he tell you?"

"That it's important I keep my family to myself," the girl explained. "That I'm not to talk about home at all, or really let anyone know I'm Muggleborn. It's safer that way."

Safer. That was one way of framing it. Professor Snape's motives were apparent, but… What could be said? She'd witnessed it herself in the short month she'd been here: The targeted bullying, the political tensions between housemates. It was just, for Cleo, she'd never made pretense for wanting to hide who she was, anyway.

However, she didn't see the purpose in arguing. As much as Cleo wanted to rant about how _wrong_ that felt, to tell a child never to speak of where she came from... laying her critiques at this girl's feet was equally inappropriate.

"That seems sad," Cleo finally remarked, crestfallen.

The girl's eyes jumped to the ceiling as she shrugged. "A little."

"What about friends?"

The girl squinted at her. "What about them?"

"What about making them?" she questioned. "What if they want to know about you? What did he tell you to do? Lie?"

"Well," the first year faltered. "No… Just…. Never tell the full truth."

"I… see."

"So… I wanted to look out for you," the girl admitted. "Since you didn't seem to remember."

"That's very sweet of you."

The girl shook her head. "We have to look out for each other," she stressed. "That's what my mum taught me, anyway."

A hint of smile ghosted over Cleo's lips. "What's your name?"

The girl's back straightened. "Thea."

"Thea," Cleo repeated, testing the name. "That's pretty. Short for anything?"

Thea's nose scrunched up with displeasure. "Nothing good. I hate my name. It's stupid."

At that, Cleo softly chuckled. "Couldn't be that bad."

"You wouldn't understand."

"No?" she mused, a glint in her eye as her hands pushed themselves into her pockets. After a moment, her shoulders lifted into a conceding shrug. "You're probably right..."

••••••••••

" _Clytemnestra Croft!_ " Her eyes focused on the vastness of the Great Hall's ceiling, displaying a beautiful, pale blue, cloudless sky. A mimicry of outside, where she'd rather be, instead of here, in Defense Against the Dark Arts. The subject alone made it difficult for her not to completely dissociate.

But, that was not a smart thing to do in Professor Tenenbaum's presence.

" _Fifty_ points from _Slytherin_ for letting your classmate _die!_ " the professor hollered at her, irate. In a haze of embarrassment, Cleo couldn't help but wonder how such a frail-looking woman could shout her ear off from across the expanse of the Great Hall.

Professor Tenenbaum was like that, she'd discovered. Full of appearances that deceived.

It was difficult to say just _who_ would fill in the position after the fiasco of the previous year's professor (a wretched old crone named Dolores Umbridge, Cleo was tersely informed), but the woman they found sitting at the front of the class at the very beginning of the year… She wasn't what anyone had imagined.

Bridgette Tenenbaum. A former Curse Breaker (now cursed, as she found fit to point out with a self-deprecating laugh) and strikingly beautiful woman with cropped hair, snarking grin, vivacious eyes and missing appendages.

Her left leg and ear, to be specific.

She was emphatic to stress that it wasn't the leg that kept her immobile. It _used_ to have a prosthetic, one she didn't find point to wear anymore on account of the wheelchair: A purple and turquoise metallic monstrosity that seemed too immense to accommodate her waif-like size.

And this didn't even begin to cover the strangeness of the man that saw fit to hover nearby, introduced as the professor's "partner in crime." With brilliant blue plumage sprouting from his neck and shoulders, he hailed the students with a jaunty wave, insisting they just call him "Ren", and spent the rest of the afternoon peppering Professor Tenenbaum's first lecture with the occasional wisecrack. From then on, every day they came to class, his features were vastly different; one day, his skin would be bright green and scaly, another day he would be sporting an elephant snout instead of an ear, and on another he would have hooves for hands.

Suffice it to say, those who hadn't thought Dumbledore had gone off the deep end began to think so now.

As it turned out, Professor Tenenbaum was not only perhaps one of the most qualified teachers to grace the Defense the Dark Arts position, but the most rigorous and strenuous one to ever enter Hogwarts. Period. This was a boon to students who enjoyed the subject and wanted more practical coursework; hell on earth for students like Cleo who loathed the boot camp-esque setting.

The professor's well manicured fingers hovered over the sprockets of her wheelchair, prompting it to propel her forward in a graceful glide across the Great Hall of its own volition. The exercise had come to a halt; much to Cleo's dismay, the students fell into a deafening quiet, punctuated by the harsh sound of frenetic, breathless shrieking coming from her partner. All eyes darted between her and the approaching professor.

Cleo's gaze skittered to the classmate she'd 'killed' - Neville Longbottom, writhing on the floor, a sharp staccato of laughter puncturing his lungs as he attempted to wriggle away from the relentless assault of… air. Nothing.

"S-S-Stop!" he wheezed in between rasping breaths, arms braced against something that appeared to be angling for his face. "Th-That _t-tickles-!_ "

"Well?" the professor shouted, still halfway across the room. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Cleo's shoulders tensed, the corners of her lips anchored down into a frown. "He seems fine to me…"

"What was that?" the professor barked, heaving her good ear in Cleo's direction.

Cleo's head shook. "I said I'm sorry!" she corrected, raising her voice.

The professor arrived with aplomb, wheelchair clacking back to the ground with a clang that made Cleo wince. Her presence was overwhelming at times, and even now Cleo could feel the woman towering over her, even though it was _she_ who was glancing down to meet the professor's piercing gaze.

"Sorry doesn't mean anything," Professor Tenenbaum informed her. "Again, what do you have to say for yourself, Croft?"

She was at a loss. "I don't know."

"You don't?" the woman questioned before she surveyed Neville's hysterics, her wand precariously threaded between her fore and ring fingers. With a small twist, the hilt returned to her palm and she made a swift slice in the air with the point. With it, Neville's body relaxed, the onslaught of _whatever_ having ceased its attack on him.

"Let's start," Professor Tenenbaum intoned, twirling her wand back in between her fingers before shooting a glare up at Cleo, "with what happened?"

Cleo faltered and couldn't find herself doing anything other than repeating the phrase the professor seemed to loathe: "I don't know."

The woman leaned back in her seat, arms crossed and tense like braided twigs as she regarded the girl with scrutiny. Cleo shuddered, unable to shake the feeling of being picked apart by unseen hands.

"That's the fifth time this month that you've disrupted my class," she pointed out, every syllable jagged and cutting, enough to make Cleo flinch. "I'm at a loss to understand _why_. Am I boring you?"

Her entire body went rigid; she could feel every stare burning into her, hear every word thought by the students in the audience to this display. Her heart balled into a fist and she couldn't manage to do anything other than shake her head in response.

"Then am I unclear?" the professor inquired. "Have my instructions been so convoluted that they're impossible for you to follow?"

"No," Cleo murmured, the word withering halfway out her mouth.

"I certainly hope it isn't sabotage?" the woman probed, her eyes traveling to the crest on Cleo's robe in a swoop that was impossible for her to miss. It was a simple downward plummet but, to Cleo, every movement was exaggerated, pointed, purposeful.

Cleo's hand jerked, impulsive, to cover the crest on her robes, her voice a soft, mortified yelp: "No!"

"Then help me understand _why,_ " Professor Tenenbaum goaded, "you seem to be struggling with what's essentially a rudimentary exercise?"

Cleo's head turned to catch the line of students watching the exchange. The back of her neck went aflame, lungs strangling themselves. She couldn't find her answer; it had managed to escape her, scattering across the floor, lost underfoot in the seemingly endless crowd.

Professor Tenenbaum seemed to have misplaced her patience, too. "Right," she hissed, jerking her entire body into a pivot, her wheelchair adjusting to face the rest of the class. "Who here can show Miss Croft the proper way to fend off invisible creatures, since she's forgotten? Mr. Potter?"

He didn't appear to shrink from being the center of attention. On the contrary, Potter looked perfectly comfortable.

"Well- I mean, there's all sorts of things you could do, but I guess the easiest way is a good Stunning charm," he remarked, assuming a dueling stance before seeming to remember: "Oh, er, if you've called them off, then maybe…?"

Professor Tenenbaum nodded. Her wand took a tumble over her knuckles before she made yet another precise, silent slice in the air.

The patter of invisible feet filled the hall once more and Potter, eyes keen, waited a few seconds before he snapped his wand to the side. Without a word, a blast of red light burst from his wand, flashing on the faces of those present as it whizzed by. The spell obviously connected with something, as the bolt hadn't fizzled out, instead latching itself onto something unseen.

Surprisingly, even after Potter had clearly done what she asked, the professor didn't call off the onslaught. For several minutes, it was just him against numerous invisible entities, and only the sound of spells crackling out of his wand could be heard.

Then, nothing. He had to have cast ten or twelve stunning spells, and he stood in the aftermath, untouched and victorious.

The professor was impressed. She'd even begun a hearty round of applause, her grin so wide that it threatened to tear her face in twain. " _And_ nonverbally!" she mentioned with a guffaw, "I'd say that's worth about fifty points to Gryffindor, no?"

A few whoops rippled through the crowd as a red haired boy clapped Potter on the back.

The merriment didn't last long, however. It steeped into a halt when Professor Tenenbaum looked to Cleo again, expression souring. The energy of the room deadened. Her stomach dropped.

"Now you," the professor instructed, her wand poised in her palm like a threat.

Cleo's response was automatic. The panic settled, heavy, into her limbs - she could already foretell the humiliation, the utter failure. Without meaning to, it sprang into her words, sudden and unwelcome: "I can't."

"Can't?" the woman addressed her, irritation seeming to flare at Cleo's defiance.

Cleo leaned forward, lowering her voice to a beseeching whisper. "Please. Can we talk about this privately? _Please_."

Professor Tenenbaum didn't appear willing to negotiate. "Miss Croft, if you have no intention to participate in today's lesson, you're free to leave."

"That's not it," the reply rushed from her, breathless, her frame wound tight. "I'm not trying to be defiant, I swear. You have to understand - I _really_ can't do it."

The professor examined her, posture relaxing. Maybe, just maybe, Cleo thought, she was relenting. She was ready to let things be.

"You can't," she repeated with disbelief, her head drifting toward the crowd of students once more. "Very well."

A sense of ease shivered through her. Her fingers loosened themselves from her palms. For a moment, she watched as the professor turned her wheelchair away, awash in the relief of simply being _left alone_. Her eyes closed. She was safe.

Unfortunately, it was in the nature of a moment to be fleeting.

She couldn't say how it happened, nor block the scene in a way that made sense. She could remember the shrill ring of the professor's voice, blaring a word that felt distant and yet, at the same time, too familiar. When her eyes fluttered open, it could only register the color red. An attack. Instinct drove everything else; the sudden rush in her blood, the snapping raise of her arm, the hoarse cry of _Protego_ fumbling out of her mouth.

In the span of a second, it all happened, each action blundering into one another in rapid succession until there was nothing but the loud rasp of Cleo's breathing and the steady drumbeat of her heart pounding in her ears.

The next thing she saw was Professor Tenenbaum's smug grin as she stared back at the girl, arm held aloft, as if she'd proved something.

"So," the woman underlined, "you can't?"

Cleo unraveled.

A terrible sting scraped across her eyelids as she stumbled back, livid. The rush of adrenaline was arresting, but so was the anger. Perhaps even more so. She stared at the woman, aghast, before lurching forward, as if she were barely able to hold herself from tackling her to the floor.

Her shout tore itself through her throat, callow and raw: "What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?!"

A hush fell over the crowd, heavier than the ones before. It was so stark she could hear her own scream echoing in the far corners of the Great Hall, severe and disturbing enough to sober her.

Her eyes widened. She never wanted to take something back more.

But everything around her was already deteriorating. Professor Tenenbaum's baleful glower seared into her.

"Wait," Cleo gasped. "I- I didn't-"

"Get. Out," the professor uttered, tone dangerously low.

She could hear the dull hum of whispers collected around her, judgmental. She wanted to sick up. "I'm _so_ sorry," she wailed, taking a step forward. "That was so wrong of me. I-"

"I said, get out!" the professor cried, her hands balled into fists. "Or do you require incentive to actually _do as you're told?_ "

Cleo hesitated.

Apparently, this was enough to throw the woman over the edge. " _Five hundred_ points from Slytherin!" the professor roared, " _And_ a month of detention! Is that enough for you, Croft?!"

Frightened, Cleo stumbled backwards, barely able to avoid a few Ravenclaws as she grabbed her bag and bolted toward the doors.

She hadn't expected to collide into anything solid; the brunt of the crash jolted her into a soft yelp, before she looked up to catch a glimpse of a slitted eye gazing down at her.

"Oi, what's the rush?" the voice of Ren crooned above her, jovial as always. Then, after a beat, he tilted his head, the skin of his face performing an iridescent shimmer and tone grown more concerned. "Cleo? You alright?"

"Sorry," she huffed, abashed, as she skirted away from him. " _So_ sorry-"

"What's-?"

She shook her head, eyes clenching shut as she pushed past him. "I have to go."

Rushing down the corridor, she could hear the faint sound of his voice calling after her. But soon enough, it was drowned out by the roar of her hastened footsteps swarming about her, accusing, taunting.

It ended up being too much and, in the midst of her hurried meandering, she crashed around one corner, tumbling to the ground. Her bag emptied itself, haphazard, across the floor, with her following close behind, her shoulder catching itself painfully against the wall.

She wanted so bad to scream.

She managed to muffle a loud cry against the inside of her forearm long enough to force the urge to ebb. Her cheeks felt hot, head thick and heavy, burdened by the intensity of… everything.

"You're _losing_ it," she reprimanded, gritting her teeth. "What were you _thinking?_ "

She pushed herself off the wall, wrenching herself toward her belongings, gathering them up with rough, careless hands. "An adult," she scoffed, heated, to herself. "What adult acts like that? _Conducts_ themselves like that?"

The mish-mashed way she stuffed her belongings into her bag had it threatening to overflow again; this was unfathomably frustrating and, with another yelp, she threw the thing across the hall, watching as it smashed against the stones with a horribly satisfying _smack_.

She was no more delicate with herself. She threw her back against the wall, drawing her legs up to her chest. Pressing her kneecaps against her eyes, she clenched her jaw, riding out another wave of anger until it subsided into something more bearable.

"Breathe," she muttered against her skirt through gritted teeth, digging her heels into the floor. "Breathe, you _idiot._ "

Eventually, she took command of her lungs. They took shallow, but practiced, breaths. In and out. In and out. In and out, until the pressure bled from her sinew, until strain faded from her, gradual.

When she looked up again, her vision was dark and splotchy. She was exhausted. More than she had been in an entire month.

All over nothing, too. Over something so incidental. Over something she had full control over. She couldn't let herself become that indignant again. To _degrade_ herself like that. How was she supposed to survive, otherwise? How was she supposed to evade discord within her own House if she couldn't avoid making such a spectacle of herself?

She couldn't fail. She couldn't give up again.

Today, so far, had been an unmitigated disaster. But… there was still time left to salvage it. One last chance. With a weighty silence draped about her, Cleo crept to her bag, determined.

 _Pull yourself together._

••••••••••

She'd skipped dinner, spending most of the evening curled up behind the greenhouses, reading her chemistry text. It was well worn, but there was some solace in treading across covered ground, revisiting a childhood memory: she could almost hear her father reading the words aloud while she sat at their dining table, the scratch of her pencil close by her ear.

The breeze which billowed her robes around her felt nostalgic, too. It was a pity that not many subjects at Hogwarts were taught outdoors; her mother had dubbed their backyard her "classroom" many years before. In the end, her mother ended up teaching her very little, but the afternoons spent studying on the back porch as she watched her mother toil away in the garden remained a comforting, cherished memory.

God, she missed them.

In the very least, thinking of them grounded her. Made her feel more human; more herself. A bittersweet method, but an effective one nonetheless. By the time the sun dove under and away from the view of the crystalline greenhouse windows, she was centered. She didn't know how ready she was for tonight, but at least she'd meet the challenge with a level head.

When it was too dark to make out the diagrams on the page of her textbook, she closed it with a sigh and rose to her feet, staring at the castle as it hunched over in the darkness, ready for bed.

She crossed the grounds, rubbing away the grass stains on her skirt. Along the way, she met no one. A blessing, but an unsurprising one; even the most notorious dawdlers wouldn't hang around the Entrance Hall two and a half hours after supper stopped being served.

When Cleo arrived at the door to Professor Snape's office, she took a second to breathe before rapping her knuckles against the door, awaiting the requisite sound of his voice before entering. The door closed behind her with a soft click and she strode across the room.

"Professor."

His attention was directed elsewhere, his wand guiding a line of hovering bottles into place on his shelf. Then, with a decisive tap, the spell ended, causing them to settle, clacking against the wood in unison.

Stowing his wand away, Snape turned to face her fully. "Cutting it close, are we, Miss Croft?"

Her head made a swift turn toward one of the walls, realizing much too late that there wouldn't be a clock there. She ducked away, too embarrassed to cast a _Tempus_ to rectify the matter. "I apologize if I'm late."

A raised eyebrow was his only acknowledgement of her odd behavior. "Sit," he said, settling into his own chair with measured precision.

It wasn't until she was there, in front of him, that the terror truly set in. It took her a few moments to finally acquiesce, but when she did so, it was with quiet, deliberate movements.

His desk was pristine, bare except for a neat stack of what appeared to be essays, but even so Snape cleared them off the tabletop, using magic to roll them all together and stow them in a drawer with a mere flourish of a wrist. Then, his attention fell directly on Cleo. "Before we come to the purpose for this visit- As your Head of House, I find myself _deeply_ interested in your other classes," he provoked, calculated. Merciless.

The worst part? She couldn't defend herself.

"I'm sorry."

"I simply cannot fathom what reason you might have to be," Snape sneered.

She was too flayed open to be offended by his tone; the wounds were too fresh, too raw. "How I acted was horrible and not only reflects poorly upon myself, but on you as well. I understand that. I take full responsibility. I am so, so sorry, Professor. There's no excuse."

His eyebrows raised and, for a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a more neutral tone, he inquired, "Five hundred and fifty points. What in Merlin's name could you have possibly done to lose _that many?_ "

Cleo's eyes slammed shut. "I failed an assignment and then I severely disrespected Professor Tenenbaum in front of her students," she confessed.

A derisive snort erupted from him. "She does not seem a woman easily offended," he pointed out.

"Well, I managed to do it," she assured him, leaning forward as she buried her head into her hands.

Snape leaned back in his seat, pensive. "And you?" he prompted. "What do you plan to do about it?"

Her words wriggled out from between her fingers, muffled. "Serve my detentions without complaint, keep my head down, control myself."

"Sensible, if a touch lacking in creativity."

She squinted at him. "Creativity?"

"You will need to do a great deal more than that to earn back those five hundred and fifty points."

Points? _That's_ what he cared about? "Forgive me if I'm more concerned with atoning for the fact I acted in a ghastly manner to another human being."

"Forgive _me,_ " he sniped, "for taking a particle of thought for the fact that your actions did not simply affect _you,_ but the entirety of your House."

"What do _you_ suggest I do then, Professor?"

For a moment, he assessed her, dark eyes searching. For what, she couldn't say. Then, when he spoke, he was confident. "Assuming that your inquiry can be taken in good faith," he prefaced with a significant glance, "what I _suggest_ is to go above and beyond what is expected, and to accomplish it with superior grace, to rectify not only poor opinions about you, but Slytherin as a whole."

Her reaction was knee-jerk. " _Slytherin as a whole?_ " she repeated, appalled.

"Yes," was his frank retort, tone a warning, "unless, of course, you would like everyone who bears that crest on their robes to become a target."

"Are you _seriously_ suggesting that Slytherin's current reputation hinges on what I did _today,_ " she argued, heated, "instead of like, what, the public demonstrations against Dumbledore? The common room being in constant disarray? Malfoy throwing his weight around as if he-"

"The point, Miss Croft, is not that you have negatively _swayed_ public opinion, but that you have _confirmed_ it," Snape cut her off. "The general opinion of this House has always been abysmal, but yours is not an isolated case. With each instance, others begin to believe that there is nothing redeemable within Slytherin."

"So, no pressure," she seethed, disaffected, hands white knuckling the cushion of her seat.

He offered her a non-committal hum before saying, "As Head of House, the safety of my students has always been my utmost priority."

"Of course," she grumbled, albeit with veiled cynicism, "that's what you assured Thea, right?"

"I can only assume you are referring to Theadora Waters," Snape inferred, "in which case, I told her nothing more than what I tell all first years."

"You _told_ her that she should lie about her heritage," she balked, unable to hide her disgust.

His gaze did not waver. "You of all people should know the price paid for doing otherwise."

"She's _eleven-_ "

"All the more reason to take every precaution, Miss Croft."

It wasn't until she took in a breath to retort that she realized how tightly wound she'd become; all at once the ache in her knuckles, spine, torso, radiated outwards, fanning through every rigid muscle, collecting like nausea in the pit of her stomach.

She swallowed. This wasn't going anywhere. And she didn't need another enemy.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," she announced, looking away from him.

"Then what precisely _do_ you want?" was his timely reply.

Right. She had come here to accomplish something. Not that she felt like it anymore - but that didn't matter, did it? How she "felt" about it was immaterial. She didn't have a choice short of giving up, right now, and going home.

"I wanted," she began, words unburdening themselves from her, "to ask you to be my advisor."

He hardly reacted, expression bland as he replied with a solicitous, "Is that so?"

"Believe it or not, yes."

"And why is it you think I should agree to that?"

It was difficult to sell herself when she was beginning to wonder what in the world she had to offer. "I've gotten an O in your class every year since I started at Hogwarts," Cleo said, mustering up the courage to look him in the eye. "I've always gone above and beyond for your projects, your essays, your tests - I've shown exorbitant interest and enthusiasm in class. You even told me, in my fifth year, that I showed promise."

The man before her threaded his fingers together in front of him, posture imposing. "There are plenty of students at this school with exceptional talents," he mentioned. "And yet, I have not taken a single advisory role for a decade."

 _Probably because no one would be masochistic enough to ask you_.

"I presume it's because you've yet to be suitably impressed."

"None have proved they are willing to put in suitable _effort_ ," he corrected, brows drawn low over his eyes.

"Professor," she addressed him, correcting her posture - business-like, utterly prim. "I wouldn't have bothered with returning to school if I had no intention of making an _effort_. I told you. I have something I need to do. I'll do whatever it takes to achieve it."

His gaze was penetrating. "If that is the case, then present to me your proposal."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"Your proposal?" he repeated, impatient. "Your goals? Your reasons for soliciting me in the first place?"

Her throat grew tighter. "I didn't think-"

" _That_ much is quite apparent," he snapped.

All at once, her breath stuttered out of her, dismayed. "But- but _Professor_ -"

"Let me be clear: you are not the first to waltz in here with delusions of grandeur."

"I'm _not_ deluding myself!" she objected, her tone taking on a sharp edge. "If you'd just give me the chance to-"

"I am not especially inclined to _charity_ at present, Miss Croft," he slashed through her sentence.

She stood abruptly, her chair groaning in resistance at the force of it, hands hovering over the front of her stomach. "Professor, there's-"

A phantom drifted through the room, right then. A familiar voice, beckoning from the fireplace. "Severus," it called. "If you'd be so kind as to join me in my office."

It winded her. All at once her confidence - the drive, the steam, the determination - fled from her. There she stood, a wilted little thing, hovering over her professor's desk, her words withering in her throat.

Snape, gaze still trained on her, answered with an annoyed deference, "Of course, Headmaster."

He rose shortly thereafter, his towering height dwarfing her in more ways than he could even begin to fathom, dismissing her with a flicker of his eyes to the door behind her.

And as he drew away to plunge himself into the Floo, her fingers wrung the hem of her shirt. A flash of fire lapped on the edge of her periphery, and her words finally spilled out into the darkness that followed after:

"- something… I have to show you..."


	3. Ingrained

And here we come to chapter four, after what feels like a whole forever of writing. Thank you so much for your patience. We hope you enjoy it. Thank you also, as ever, to our lovely betas. We love you.

••••••••••

It was breakfast and a bomb had dropped.

The suspended silence was wedged between the bomb's deafening impact and the sudden, piercing screams of survivors. Cleo felt the collective panic like a punch to the gut.

But that was hyperbole working again. The truth of it: It was breakfast and she had a letter.

'To the lovely Miss Cleo,' it accused, and her stomach turned away from her.

 _Cal._

The handwriting impressed upon her before any of the words could. Before she'd even read her name, she knew. There was no return address- he never bothered with those. There wasn't even a sending address. Just "Clytemnestra Croft" written in his unmistakable scrawl.

It was a miracle in and of itself that it had made its way to her.

In a distracted lapse of anxiety, she tore the side open and pulled the bit of parchment from the confines of its envelope (another odd, uncharacteristic detail - where did he get an envelope?); her initial instinct was a momentary jolt of excitement.

But then the guilt settled only seconds after she'd caught the beginning of the letter. _To the lovely Miss Cleo_.

Immediately, she knew she was anything but.

Her glimpse of the first paragraph didn't help matters.

 _Oi! I haven't heard from you in a while. You said you'd write, and I'll have you know I am properly offended that I have to get off my arse and send this first._

Her reaction was histrionic: Her arm snapped over, turning the letter prone and away from her, as if she had seen something she shouldn't have. Her head tossed itself skyward and she grimaced.

"You all right?"

Cleo couldn't see her, but she recognized the first year's voice. Her lips flattened into an embarrassed scowl and she rolled her shoulders back. "Yes."

She heard the wooden bench across from her settle as someone plopped themselves down. There was a beat of a pause, then:

"What's that?"

Cleo managed to pull her head down as her fingers drummed themselves idly on the back of the parchment. "A letter."

"Oh," Thea breathed, brown curls bobbing, haphazard, as she canted her head. "Who from?"

 _Does it matter? What's it to you?_

She closed her eyes against this impulse and swallowed. "A friend."

Thea reached across the table to grab a piece of toast that Cleo had left abandoned on her plate. "That's nice," she commented. "I like getting letters. Especially from my mums. They send me packages."

Cleo was grateful for the unorthodox syntax, if only because it allowed her an opportunity to deflect attention away from her. "Mums?" she asked as she leaned her cheek into the palm of her hand.

"Yep, got two," Thea hummed, a bit guarded, before taking a bite of toast. Mouth still full, she shot back to Cleo: "How many do you have?"

"Just the one," she replied, eyes crawling to the back of the parchment again.

Thea waited a moment before remarking: "I like that answer."

"Why's that?"

"Nothing - it's stupid," she dismissed. There was a moment of reticence as Thea fiddled with the piece of toast in her fingers before she looked up, sheepish. "Thanks for not making me explain."

Cleo could only wonder how many times that had come up before.

However, her principle acknowledgement was a wave of the hand. "What do they send you?"

"Care packages, usually," Thea explained. "I mean, I've only gotten one since I've been here. But they used to do this when I went to camp."

"Camp kid too, huh?" Cleo mused, her lips upticked in a small smile.

"You bet," Thea shot back, playful. "You ever go?"

"No. My dad tried to get me to go once, but I got homesick immediately and demanded I be brought back home."

"What a baby," Thea teased as she grabbed a clementine from one of the fruit bowls nearby.

Cleo hummed softly in agreement. "What sort of camp did you go to?"

"Space camp," Thea supplied, her fingernails puncturing the peel of her clementine. "I've only been twice, over the summers, but it was loads of fun."

"Space camp," Cleo murmured, thoughtful. "Y'know, that was the only sort of camp that seemed at all interesting to me. What do you even do there?"

"Stargazing, mostly. At least the one I went to did. Nothing fancy, not like some of the American camps my Mums looked at. But all my counselors knew heaps of things, and we learned where to find all the constellations. Not to mention - I saw _Saturn_ for the first time! Can you believe that?" She plopped a piece of clementine in her mouth, her eyes glimmering, as if enraptured with a recollection. "Saturn's _so_ big that you can see it all the way here with a telescope! I could even see the _rings!_ Most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life!"

Cleo's voice was wistful, but kind. "Sounds very important to you."

"You should try it," Thea insisted after swallowing. "I could show you. I still remember the spot."

"I've seen her before," Cleo told her. "Second year Astronomy."

"Professor Sinistra's going to let us look at _planets?!_ " Thea suddenly gasped, a tinge of excitement flaring her words. "So far, it's only been constellations! I got twenty points last Wednesday for knowing where Ursa Major and Ursa Minor are! I can't believe we'll get to look at _planets!_ "

Thea's mention of points approached her, struck her square in the chest. Snape's voice, unwelcome, careened into the fray. _Forgive me for taking a particle of thought for the fact that your actions do not simply affect you_.

For Thea to be so excited over her success, it suddenly seemed all the more disgusting that Cleo's indiscretion had erased it all. God. _God_.

"... You okay?"

"What?"

"I mean, I get worked up over space too," Thea joked, gentle.

She hadn't noticed until it was pointed out. A faint heat emanated from her eyes, punctuated by a sting that didn't register until Cleo blinked. She was quick to swipe her forearm over her face. "No, no," she dismissed. "It's nothing. You're fine."

"Maybe you should read your letter," Thea suggested. "I know hearing from my friends and family always makes me happy."

Her lips twitched into a quick smile before she said, "Maybe later."

"Why not now?"

Plenty of reasons. None that seemed worthwhile to share. Not without running the risk of sounding ridiculous. Cleo remained silent and shoveled a spoonful of cold oatmeal into her mouth.

The conversation petered out uncomfortably, the two of them eating their food, until Thea piped up again a few minutes later, eager.

"So, uhm, who's your friend?"

Cleo didn't mean to sound as ashamed as she did when she said his name: "Caleb."

"Oh. Is he a Muggle?"

Cleo shook her head. "No, he's a wizard."

Thea's eyes squinted in confusion. "Then... wait - why isn't he _here?_ "

Cleo glanced away from her, toward the ceiling again. "Because he graduated last year."

"Oh."

"Mm."

Another pause. Thea appeared as if she were working through her own suspicions. "It's nice that he writes you."

"Yeah," Cleo sighed, noncommittal.

She observed as Thea's body shifted, one side to the left, awkward and self conscious. "I'm sorry if I'm talking too much. It's just-"

Cleo's eyes closed. God. _Fucking_ God. _Fucking Christing God on a fucking crutch._ She was the worst. _The absolute fucking worst._ Couldn't even play _polite_ and _nice._ Had to make a fucking eleven year old feel awful for trying to be _friendly._ For making an _effort._ For-

"No, Thea," Cleo asserted, tender voice traveling across the table to grasp her. "You're fine. I'm sorry. I'm in an odd mood, I think. It's not you, I promise."

"It's okay to be sad," the girl said quietly. "That's what mum tells me. It's okay to be sad. You don't have to, you know, hide it."

Cleo couldn't help it; at that juncture, deflecting felt like the only comfortable thing to do. "Which mum?" she teased, tilting her head.

Thea rolled her eyes, albeit with a grin. "Mama Sophie. She has a lot of good advice about being sad."

"Does she?"

"It's 'cause she deals with it a lot," Thea explained. "It's her entire job."

Cleo squinted. "What does she do?"

"She's a mortician," Thea told her with a tinge of pride that time, seemingly catching a second wind from Cleo's previous lack of judgement.

"That's unique."

"Lots of things about my mums are unique," Thea pointed out.

"I believe you."

"What about yours?"

Cleo raised an eyebrow. "What, my parents?"

"Yeah," Thea prompted.

"You sure you feel comfortable with this?"

She frowned, bemused. "Huh?"

"We've shared a lot of personal things," Cleo reminded her, giving her a knowing look. "I want to make sure you feel okay with it."

"Oh." The girl's head lowered a bit, mouth twisting, pensive. "I hadn't really thought about it."

"We don't have to say anything else."

There appeared to be a deliberation that passed over the girl's expression before her posture straightened, gaze growing more determined, confident. "We're the same," she announced, clearly on the tail end of some conclusion. "So I just, you know, felt safe."

The hint of a smile wormed its way across Cleo's lips, before inching away into neutrality. "This will all just stay here with me, I promise."

"I know," Thea said, before she gazed at Cleo, expectant. "So...?"

"Well," Cleo started with a sharp exhale. "My Dad's a midwife, and my mum..." Sure was... a whole lot of things. "... well, she's a stay at home mother. But there's lots of things she likes to do."

"Like what?" Thea asked, fishing in the bowl for yet another clementine, not long after she'd polished off the first.

"Painting, gardening, meditating," Cleo listed, before letting out a short laugh. "Protesting."

"My mums do that too," Thea said, frowning as a bit of juice squirted from the fruit after she'd dug too deep with her fingers. With an ineloquent duck of her head, she licked the lines that bisected her wrists, before adding: "I don't know a lot about it. They say I'm too young. But they do a lot of marching. And they let me help them make their signs. Mama Carol says it's good to be... engaged."

"She's right."

"Do you protest with your mum?"

"Sometimes," was Cleo's nonchalant answer.

Thea picked up the slack from Cleo's clipped speech. "I wish I could go with my mums," she admitted. "It feels bad, sometimes, because they always seem to be fighting against something. I hate seeing them do it on their own. I want to help."

Cleo's chest felt weighted by something she couldn't describe and her response poured from her, drunk on its confidence, "You do enough."

Thea's laugh was skeptical. "How do you know?"

"I just do."

"Yeah, well," Thea sighed, "It makes me frustrated. I want to fight too."

"You're too young to be fighting."

"It's not like I have a choice," Thea countered, a bit put off. "I'm not a baby."

Cleo's frown grew more prominent. "I wasn't trying to say you were."

"It's just not fair," she complained, "sometimes Mama Carol cries over the fact she can't adopt me, because it's not allowed. They already can't get married. And it makes me mad. I hate that they make her cry."

Cleo's fingers tightened around her bowl of oatmeal. What could she possibly argue, in that instance?

"Can I ask you something?"

Strangely wary, Cleo answered, "What is it?"

Thea hesitated, her eyes seeming to focus on Cleo's face oddly.

"What?"

"Just-" Thea began, apprehensive. "How old are you?"

Cleo's laugh kicked out of her. "You're nervous to ask me _that?_ "

"I mean-"

"I'll be twenty in two weeks."

"Oh," Thea mumbled. "So, you are older."

A heat on the back of Cleo's neck flared. "Yes I am."

"So that means it's true," Thea concluded.

"What's true?"

"You know," Thea said in a lower register. "That you left."

Cleo leaned back against her own anxiety, crowded in the air just at her shoulders. The room felt quieter. Which was ridiculous - of course it wasn't. The dull roar of surrounding voices hadn't waned any great deal, but in her ears they quieted against the accusation in Thea's voice.

"I... did."

"Why?"

Cleo tore her eyes away from the table to look at Thea. "Does it matter?"

"I guess not," Thea conceded. "I just wanted to hear it from you."

"Hear it from me," Cleo echoed, flat.

"I didn't want to listen to rumors."

"Rumors are _fun,_ " Cleo uttered with levity, her hands going into her lap.

"What I mean is, you're my friend," Thea explained, sitting up straighter, "and I don't think it's fair to listen to rumors about something like that."

Cleo's insides broke into a faint warmth. "What did you hear?"

"Nothing concrete," Thea assured her. "Just... something about a Gryffindor you used to know."

She hated how that accusation settled next to her: Overly familiar, oblivious to how unwelcome it was, fancying itself an old friend. It made it all the more difficult to not express her frustration, but Cleo managed.

"It did involve him, yes."

Thea leaned forward, urgent. "Wait, it did?"

"Yes."

"But... then, what happened?" Thea's expression softened. "It... it wasn't like defense class, was it?"

What, she'd heard about that too?

Well, no, of course she had. Losing all of Slytherin's house points wasn't going to remain a secret. But the fact that Thea's mind had lept to Cleo's public display of rage made her insides twist uncomfortably.

"It wasn't like that," Cleo promised her. "It's just, when I was seventeen, I met Benjamin and-"

"Miss Croft."

\- and that was the end of that. The soft squeak of wheels arrived alongside Professor Tenenbaum's interruption and Cleo looked to her, apprehensive.

"Good morning, Professor," she wheedled the greeting from her collecting anxiety in some vain attempt to make it productive.

Professor Tenenbaum didn't seem all that interested in pleasantries. "I received your timetable from Professor Snape," she disclosed.

"I see."

"You have a two hour block of free time before your N.E.W.T. Divination class at nine thirty," the Professor replied dully, her papery cheek resting in the cleft of her palm. "I figured that would be an appropriate time to schedule your detentions, yes?"

"I don't have a problem with that."

Her eyes lit up, voice lilting with a sardonic response, " _Well,_ so long as you don't have a problem with it."

Cleo flinched. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that-"

"I'll expect you soon, Miss Croft. We'll be meeting at the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest today. Please don't run late."

That meant "come now," more than anything else. Cleo understood that implicitly.

Though, as the professor began to wheel herself away, she stopped briefly to flash a brilliant smile at Thea. "Miss Waters. How is your _Fumos_ coming along?"

"Better," Thea answered, her eyes volleying between Cleo and the professor. However, in some lapse of hesitation, the girl's lips folded into a smile. "It looks more like fog than just cloud now."

"Very good," the woman praised. "Keep practicing. I'd like you to show me when we do practicals tomorrow."

"Yes ma'am."

There was a rapid shift in her demeanor when Professor Tenenbaum glanced to Cleo once more - put off, but with a begrudging sense of beckoning to it.

Cleo about caved in on herself, but remained stalwart, watching as the woman's purple wheelchair did an about face and headed toward the exit of the Great Hall. Her breath all but beat itself out of her.

"Cleo?" Thea prompted.

"I should go," Cleo stated, beginning to stand, attention glued to the teacher's slowly fading silhouette.

"Okay."

Cleo's head drifted back to look down at the first year and, with a half-weary smile, she promised, "I'll tell you about it later, okay?"

Whatever vague disappointment existed in the girl's posture evaporated from her as she sat up taller, smiling once more. "Okay!"

She'd slung her bag over her shoulder and began to walk away when she heard Thea's voice again. "Wait, Cleo?"

She stopped dead in her tracks, frowning over her shoulder. "What?"

Thea casually placed her fingers on the edge of the parchment laid abandoned on the table, pushing it toward her. "You almost forgot your letter."

"Oh." Almost. A near miss. If only.

There was a weighty gait to her steps when she returned to retrieve the letter, and she folded it sloppily before stuffing it into her pocket.

"Have fun at detention," Thea sang to her, attention focused on breakfast once more.

••••••••••

The professor had arrived long before Cleo had the chance to. When she passed the edge of the grounds, the first thing she spotted was Professor Tenenbaum tutting over a largeish tree at the center of a clearing - quite an uncommon sight within the confines of the cluttered forest.

Her presence was greeted with a prompt order hastily flung from the end of an arm proffered toward her: "Give me those shears."

Casting her eyes about, Cleo obediently fetched the tool from off a nearby, obviously conjured, table. They were snatched from her hands with a clipped _thanks_ and Cleo took a step back, eyeing the foliage again.

The woman hacked off one of the branches; it was shrivelled and charred, more like a raisin than the reaching arm of a tree. There was an inordinate portion of time where the professor seemed to ignore her outright, and Cleo steeped herself in the silence, off kilter, observing as the woman continued to mutilate the tree with every snap of her shears.

A compulsion came at the apex of this horrendous in-between, an impulse to fill the silence, if only to diminish the discomfort that was beginning to gorge itself on the quiet the longer the two of them stood there.

Hands clasped behind her back, she revealed herself with a loud breath, before reciting: "Professor Tenenbaum, I just wanted, first of all, to tell you how sorry I am about how I acted-"

"My, you really don't listen, do you?" Professor Tenenbaum mused aloud, still focused on the tree.

Winded, Cleo faltered. "I-"

"As I've said," the woman said, regarding a particular area of bark that held her attention rapt, "sorry doesn't mean anything."

All Cleo could muster was a bewildered, blundering, "Then, what could I possibly do to make up for-"

"You'll do as you're told, perhaps?" the woman suggested.

"I was horrified," Cleo prefaced, taking a step closer. "If it's a matter of sincerity, I can promise you that I _do_ feel awful about it."

"I'm sure you do," Professor Tenenbaum remarked. "That's not in question."

"I don't understand?"

"It's really rather simple, Miss Croft," the Professor assured her, finally deigning to glance in her direction. "I don't respect people who don't respect me."

"I _do-_ "

"You most certainly _do not,_ " the woman interjected with a wry chuckle. "And I don't particularly care, either. You don't survive in the real world being concerned with how much everyone you meets likes you. I know you'd rather kiss a Banshee than be in my class- that was apparent from the moment you arrived. But, to be frank, Miss Croft, the bottom line is that if you aren't interested in learning, then I'm not all that interested in teaching you."

As if some pretense had been dropped, Cleo's posture drooped and she asked, dejected, "If that's the case, then why the scene?"

"Because most of the time, when people can't force themselves to give a toss about a class, they keep to themselves, not sabotage lessons. By all means, be as incompetent as you'd like. Skive off, if it pleases you. But I won't abide by disruptions. Everyone else is there to _learn_ and when I have to halt everything to deal with _you,_ it means that _everyone else_ is adversely affected. It takes away from their time to learn. That's not fair, is it?"

She didn't know what bothered her more: the fact that this very same sentiment had a habit of being thrown into her face as of late, or the fact that a modicum of truth laid within it and she didn't have the strength to deal with it right now.

"No," Cleo answered after a pause. "It's not."

"Well, there you go," Professor Tenenbaum returned, breezy. "You aren't a lost cause after all."

"But, ma'am?"

That caught the woman's attention. Her wheelchair shifted in its hover to face Cleo as the woman's head canted.

"I don't hate your class," Cleo explained. "I wouldn't have taken it had I not been pressured, no, but I've never had any intention of disrupting anything. You're a good teacher and, even though you've made it clear that you hate me saying this, I'm sorry if my lack of enthusiasm communicated any sense of disrespect. I don't think your class is a waste of time."

The lack of reaction in the professor's expression was unsettling. Her affect was completely flat, unmoved, as if she hadn't heard what Cleo had said at all. Or didn't care.

However, after a moment, something shifted in the woman's countenance. Or, well, more accurately, she glanced from Cleo to the tree, her posture in her wheelchair growing relaxed.

"You'll be helping me set wards for tomorrow's lesson," she announced, turning toward the forest. "What do you know of limnal boundaries?"

"Do you mean liminal?"

A scoff blurted from the woman's mouth. "I'm not in the habit of misspeaking, no. I mean _limnal_. I'll take your confusion as an utter lack of understanding of the subject?"

"That'd be safe."

That, above all else, drew the first genuine reaction from the professor: She laughed. It was a raspy, rumbling sort of noise that bubbled deep in her chest. "It's rather simple," she prefaced, rapping her knuckles on the tree beside her. "In here is a nasty creature which I would rather not inflict on the world at large. I want to make sure it cannot leave this clearing. So, how do you suppose we keep that from happening?"

"Drawing a boundary it cannot pass."

"Exactly," she acknowledged. "We define a section of space, and we use that to direct the flow of magic. You following so far?"

Cleo's head bobbed slightly as she stepped forward. "So you delineate where you want the boundary to be, and you use the flow of magic to enforce it. Right?"

"In a sense. That 'flow of magic' we are talking about is what wizards call wards," the professor said, waving her wand in a lazy curlicue. "They're magical instructions placed on a limnal boundary, allowing it to do its work."

Cleo chewed the inside of her cheek momentarily before asking, "How do you... I don't know, specify the instructions? It can't just be a magical word, can it?"

Professor Tenenbaum rolled back a short distance in air, gesturing toward the edge of the clearing. "When the boundary is drawn, it is connected to what is called a 'foundational object'. That object - whatever it is - essentially acts as a proxy for the entire area you defined. So, when you attach spells to it, they are distributed across the whole space."

"So it's not a single spell, but a network of spells."

The woman performed a waffling shrug, her head bouncing side to side as she considered. "In essence? Yes. But if we're to paint a complete picture: sometimes it _is_ and sometimes it _isn't._ That all depends on what you're trying to accomplish. Something like an Unplottable Ward tends to run on the more complicated side, whereas a Caterwauler is about as simple as it gets."

"So... how complicated did you want this ward to be?"

"I intend to spice it up a bit, but it's important to start simple. First, set the boundary. Second, attach the foundation object. _Third_ \- and this is crucial - lay down your ward parameters _before_ you place the ward. Fourth, establish the obstruction spell which will keep the creature trapped inside. See? Simple."

Yeah. Simple. _Sure._

There was an unexpected shout which wafted toward them from the edge of the clearing. "Oi Bridge, we alright to cross?" Ren was standing beneath the canopy of trees, accompanied by none other than Harry Potter, who was shuffling his feet and looking around curiously.

"The hell do you think?" Professor Tenenbaum called back, distracted.

The man made his way toward them, not appearing perturbed by her tone. As he drew near, Cleo could see that his look was as eclectic as it usually was: His skin was tinged purple, and red, downy feathers peppered his body. Long hair askew, and strawberry blonde today she noticed, he walked with a lumbering gait, likely due to the long rat's tail which trailed along behind him. Despite the colorful array, Ren was attired very plainly, his hands stuffed in the pockets of an oversized, dark denim jacket. Crossing in front of Professor Tenenbaum, he completed a leisurely twirl.

"How do you like my look?" he questioned with a theatrical vamp, ruined by the fact he nearly tripped over the tail.

"Garish and hideous, as always," Professor Tenenbaum volleyed back, though in a tone that Cleo caught as distinctly and oddly... _loving._

Ren shrugged, his smirk unwavering. "Ah, well. Guess I'll have to try harder next time."

Potter, hovering at the outskirts of their small circle, cleared his throat. "Er, you asked for me, Professor?"

Everything about Professor Tenenbaum brightened a considerable deal when she addressed Potter, the shift so jarring that it was difficult not to gawp. "Harry, good. Would you come with me a moment? I wanted to speak with you on a matter."

The boy acquiesced readily enough. Ren pivoted to watch them go, but then he abruptly turned around to point a finger in her direction. "Oh! Cleo!" he exclaimed as if he'd only just noticed she was there. "Been meaning to talk to you."

 _That_ sounded unsettlingly conspiratorial. "Have you?"

"Yes!" he declared, triumphant. "And wouldn't you know it, we've got ourselves the perfect opportunity."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Did you know that when I attended this _noble_ institution," this was said with a tinge of mockery, "I was a Gryffindor?"

"Imagine that."

"A tragically typical one, I might add," he lamented. Though, considering his current appearance, that was a bit hard to believe. "But still, I heard about what happened in class yesterday."

"I would hazard a guess that everyone has at this point," she pointed out, subdued.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of!" Ren argued, jovial. "Hell, I've had it out with Bridge before too; she's... _herself._ "

Well, he was perhaps the first person to share that sentiment. She couldn't say if that was a comfort or not. "Yes, well, in the end, you're not exactly the person she thinks is an unhinged, disrespectful idiot are you?"

The man squinted at her, feathers rumpling as he shrugged. "I like to consider myself the de facto expert on 'what Bridgette Tenenbaum would think', and I can confirm she thinks _none_ of those things," he pointed out. "Look, she's not concerned about this or that thing that you've said. She's been called worse, believe me. Bridge doesn't put any stock in words."

Well, that was already apparent. Cleo didn't say anything, though - just observed as he waffled through his next statement.

"You're only... Eh... Okay, here's the thing: her temper is _extra_ foul with people like you."

"People like me," she repeated in a low murmur.

"The smart ones," he clarified, earnest. "The ones who could be leaps and bounds ahead, if only they took a step forward."

"I think you're both overestimating my capabilities," she put in tiredly.

Ren grinned at her. "Nah, she's trained up loads of rookies in her day, and she's _never_ wrong about the potential of her students. And me? My approach isn't as logical."

She was sensing a pattern here. Ren appealed to flattery, to over inflate her abilities. Professor Tenenbaum, however, appealed to her guilt. She preferred the professor's method better. At least it was honest. At least it was willing to call her out on her bullshit.

"Your approach?"

"Well, I guess I'd call it more of a _philosophy,_ " he mused, tapping a finger on his chin. "I believe that everyone can accomplish great and previously-impossible feats, but they limit themselves- Which is why _I'm_ an oddball with below-average accomplishments." His grin grew larger, his tone incredibly bright. "It's my dream come true! You, though? I don't think you're the same."

"You don't, huh?"

"Yeah," Ren said, stuffing his hands in both pockets once more, "otherwise, you wouldn't have come back."

" _Jesus,_ " she expelled all of a sudden, her first break in composure. "How many of you people know about that?"

The man before her raised both eyebrows, hands burrowing into his jacket pockets. Then, his mirth bubbled over and he threw his head back in a full laugh. "Well, what did you expect? I'm a teacher's assistant!"

She wasn't certain what that had to do with anything, but she didn't really want to know either, lest she be privy to some meeting Dumbledore called to discuss her private matters. Scowling, she turned away, her eyes catching on the image of Potter and the professor speaking, not that far away. Tenenbaum didn't look happy. _Fantastic._

"If you knew a thing about it," Cleo grumbled, "you'd realize coming back was a stupid idea."

Ren sobered, shifting his weight with another shrug. "Well- I don't know," he remarked, following her gaze toward the other pair. " _Maybe_ you're right. But in my experience, it's the stupid ideas that yield the best results."

Her expression became incredulous. That didn't even make sense.

He looked in her direction, smile returning. "Tell you what, I'll do you one better in the ideas department."

Cleo looked at him, her mouth ready on a response. However, just then, she caught the frayed edges of Professor Tenenbaum's voice.

"You're sure you won't reconsider?" she cajoled, and Cleo could hear a sharp clack as she dropped her head against the back of her wheelchair.

Potter scratched the side of his head, bashful. "Sorry, Professor."

The woman let out a soft, dissatisfied hum. Ren lifted his hands from his pockets and clapped them together, the singular sound booming in the quiet clearing.

"All done, then?" he raised his voice toward the other two.

"That appears to be the case, yes," the professor murmured, the wind stolen from her sails.

"I've just had the most _brilliant_ idea in the known world. Do you want to hear it?" Ren prompted, jauntily rolling back on his heels.

All three of them didn't answer. None of them looked at him, either. Cleo's eyes faced the floor. Potter still seemed abashed. Professor Tenenbaum had all the look of dread about her.

Undeterred, Ren continued as if he'd received an enthusiastic response. "Not to worry, I won't keep you all in suspense for too long." There was a note of irony in his tone, borne of self-awareness no doubt. "In my humble opinion, the lively Miss Cleo requires a tutor. And what have we here, but a diligent student with an apparent knack for instruction?"

Cleo's head snapped in Ren's direction, a sharp " _What?_ " escaping her; it only took her seconds to notice the distinct deeper undertone, as Potter had blurted out the same sentiment as well.

"Uh-!" Potter looked to be casting about for something to say, though his alarm was apparent. "I mean, I don't really think I'm the best choice-"

"Nonsense!" Ren exclaimed, before he let out a short laugh. "My, _my,_ I sound like my _mother-_ "

Potter pressed forward through the aside. "I've just finished telling the Professor that my schedule isn't really suitable for more extracurriculars-"

"It's an _imposition,_ " Cleo argued, flustered. "I'm not comfortable demanding time out of some kid's schedule for my own benefit-"

Harry grimaced. "'Some kid?' I'm _right here,_ you know."

"Cleo, Harry, let me be clear," Ren said, placing a calming hand in each of their directions. "It wouldn't be permanent. Even if all you did was meet once a week, I think you both could benefit."

"But-"

He addressed Cleo squarely, then. "Honestly? Without tutoring, you're going to have a bad time. This course hit the ground running from day one, and now you've got to catch up. But there's no reason you couldn't be at the same level as the rest of the class by Christmas if you had extra help."

"I _told_ you," she stressed, "I'm not comfortable imposing on anyone."

With that, he rounded on Potter. "Might you be able to spare an hour or two?"

"Don't _pressure_ him," Cleo warned, her arms crossing taut over her chest.

Potter frowned, looking between the two before casting his eyes to the professor as if to appeal for help. "I... don't know," he ventured, uncomfortable.

"It's fine, Potter," Cleo assured him, clearly on edge. "I'm not your responsibility."

Ren's next remark was a touch thespian. "It would be such a _shame_ to abandon your classmate in her hour of _need-_ "

"It's..." Potter's deliberation lasted a mere moment. "Alright, _fine,_ I'll do it-"

" _No_."

Cleo's interjection went unnoticed. Ren clapped his hands together once more, as if to put an end to the matter. "We're in agreement, then," he concluded, a lilt in his voice. "All we need is the approval of the Chief Witch of the Wizengamot over here."

Professor Tenenbaum, who had taken a reclined position in her wheelchair, leaned forward only to smirk, as her hand went to scratch the rough stump that made up her left leg. "It's up to Harry," she commented, blithe. "Though, I would hope that it- ah, ignites some spark of passion he once retained for tutoring."

The boy grimaced briefly, his gaze falling by the wayside. "Right."

"Potter."

His eyes met Cleo's. _Finally._ "What?"

She stopped, watching him; there was nothing in his expression that gave him away, nor any indication of how he felt. With a frown, she glanced up toward the sky above her and sighed. "I'll be in the library this afternoon," she told him. "If you _actually_ want to do this, you can declare your intentions then and there. After you've actually _thought_ about it. Sound fair?"

The boy shuffled his feet, but held her stare. "Sure," was his neutral reply, carried on the back of a shrug.

Her gaze drifted to Professor Tenenbaum then, her frame still wound tight. "We should start on the wards," she indicated, trying not to sound gloomy. "It's a wonder your little creature has remained in the tree for this long."

••••••••••

Charms had droned on for far longer than she preferred, and the greater portion of it was spent avoiding Potter. She didn't know what Ren was thinking, requesting such a thing - on her behalf, no less. How could Potter say no under that kind of duress? She didn't need tutoring, anyway. Perhaps it would've been _helpful,_ but... She could manage on her own.

There was no better place to start on that, really, than in the library. Her steps were heavy; Cal's letter was still burning a hole in her pocket. Maybe if it actually _did,_ she mused, she'd never have to read it.

There wasn't any use dwelling on it. It was just going to make the entire day more unbearable.

Hogwarts's library was perhaps one of the more sizable ones she'd ever encountered, which was a feat in and of itself. Her father was a veritable connoisseur of libraries; there wasn't one within a hundred kilometers of her hometown that he hadn't been to. From the time she was young, a weekly visit had become a regular part of their routine, along with bedtime storytelling. Of course, her nightly tales didn't always include princesses and talking animals; her father had frequently dazzled her with tales of science and medicine - a way to incentivize himself to study when he'd ended up specializing in midwifery, she'd discovered much later.

Even if most of what he'd said was a mystery to her, it was the soothing baritone of his voice that she'd enjoyed most of all. Her eyes began to close, attempting to remember the sound...

 _No._

Why did she continue to reminisce like this when all it did was make her more and more homesick?

School. Focus on _school_.

As she navigated her way through, she noticed the Defense section of the library was noticeably more sparse than the rest; it seemed likely that a great deal of it had been gouged out and placed in the Restricted Section. Most of what remained were textbooks for lower years, encyclopedias, a few complex books of theory, and historical texts about famous dark creatures and those who discovered them - including, inexplicably, a few books by Gilderoy Lockhart. Cleo took hold of several tomes, stacking them up in her arms. Many of the "historical" ones had the look of narratives, but it couldn't hurt to check; after all, Ren had made it quite clear that she was failing Defense. If there was anything that could help her here, she would take it.

By the time she'd made it to a table, Cleo had gathered a sizable heap. Initially endeavoring to carry it all herself, she'd ended up settling for making them float along behind her when they'd threatened to topple more than once.

She was careful to settle them noiselessly, lest she disturb the others seated and studying, but an abrupt, scornful laugh clanged from her left, followed by the scraping of a chair. "Ah- girls, it's _well_ past time to go."

Cleo glanced up at the sudden sound, regretting it immediately. A band of five Slytherin girls were clustered by a neighboring table. One of them was staring directly at her - the one who had spoken. Striking blue eyes, auburn hair bound into a loose ponytail atop her head, and strikingly lavish accoutrements completed her affluent presentation. She was possessed of an acutely dignified bearing the other girls lacked, with a calculating glare to match. The girl stood, the movement so poised and elegant that she could be mistaken for royalty. Her followers mirrored her action a mere few seconds later, like afterimages.

A wispy girl standing beside her prodded her arm. "Aw, Ann! Do we have to? Flora was just getting to the good part!"

"Yes, we do," the first girl, Ann presumably, countered with a significant glance at Cleo. "I don't care much for the air in here anymore." Four pairs of eyes turned against her.

"Oh," one of the others sighed. This girl was familiar: Jane Atwater. From her Herbology class. They locked eyes, only broken when Jane glanced away, turning her back.

" _Right_ then," Ann scoffed, "we're off."

With a haughty toss of her ponytail, she left, her posse trailing behind her. Cleo caught Jane dawdling for a moment, the girl's lips flashing an apologetic frown in her direction before bursting into a trot to catch up with her friends.

Sighing, Cleo turned her gaze back to her books. It didn't matter. It didn't fucking matter. _Focus_.

In the end, this was easier said than done. Her attention drifted in between dry sentence after dry sentence... As it turned out, Professor Tenenbaum had trapped what was called a _Leshy_ to be used for the next day's lesson. And from what she gleaned from the anthology, they were slavic magical creatures. Guardians of the forest. Not necessarily malevolent in and of themselves, but dangerous still, if caught in a bad enough mood. They were known for things like kidnapping children, luring travelers astray, blah... _blah_...

Studying had never been this difficult before. The words intertwined with one another; her own thoughts lanced amidst the sentences she read, disrupting. By the time she'd attempted to read the same sentence for the fifth time and yet _still_ hadn't retained what it said, she knew this entire thing was a wash. The book held her as she dipped forward, pressing her forehead against its spine.

Giving up wasn't really an option, as alluring as the prospect seemed. This was supposed to be productive. She didn't want to sulk.

Her robes felt uncomfortable, lopsided, favoring her left pocket. It didn't matter how many times she adjusted herself - this same agitation would rear its ugly head once again, careening its way to the forefront of her mind. The letter. It wanted to be read. She fucking knew that. But she _couldn't_ right now.

A jolt of heat and pressure surged through her spine and, with a scowl, she slammed her book shut. The sound bloomed out from the epicenter of where she sat and she noticed, much to her chagrin, a few heads were raised to look at her. She offered a meek, contrite smile in supplication, and watched as each face dropped back into study.

Cleo's eyes slammed shut and she grit her teeth.

 _Control yourself_.

Her arm reached to grab and pull another book from the pile, not caring to know what it was. She cracked the spine open against her lap and forced herself to begin reading again. _An Assorted History On Dueling._

A numbness took hold of her and she struggled through the first few pages of the text for what felt like forever until she noticed something beside her: Fingers taking hold of one of the books on her table, just barely in her line of sight. Reflexively, she shot out a hand in a quick, deterring motion.

"Sorry, I'm using that-" She stopped short, arm cancelling its path, and her breath caught roughly in her throat.

Professor Snape stood beside the table, his expression neutral aside from a single quirked eyebrow. "Using that term rather _loosely,_ aren't you, Miss Croft?"

"Not really," she returned, a touch defensive.

The man didn't immediately reply, simply glancing about the table in front of her with a considering air before returning his gaze to her. "You haven't turned a page in at least ten minutes."

She stared at him, bewildered. "Have you been watching me for ten minutes?"

"If by 'watching' you mean 'noticing your haphazard arrangement of books due to the fact that you are currently holding one that I require hostage', then yes."

"Hostage," she repeated, deadpan.

"Indeed," was his equally unenthused rejoinder. "Seeing as you are not strictly _using_ it at present."

"I was going to get into it after this chapter," she protested.

"You have particular interest in limnal boundaries and ward foundations?"

"I have a particular interest in doing an essay on them for extra credit," she told him.

He squinted at her, his expression odd in such a way that Cleo suspected that the phrase "extra credit" was either repulsive or utterly unfamiliar to him. The professor commented, "For someone so apparently struggling with Defense concepts, you seem quite keen to jump ahead of your curriculum."

"As I remember, _you_ suggested I do so."

"I must confess to some lingering skepticism regarding your compliance."

She frowned. "I've taken your advice plenty of times."

Both eyebrows rose at that pronouncement. "You don't say," he intoned.

It was difficult to not take his bait. But being antagonistic wouldn't help matters, not where he was concerned, at least. She frowned at him before looking back down at the book in front of her. "When you're right, you're right."

The man shifted in her periphery. "I expect Professor Tenenbaum has already contacted you to schedule your detentions?" he changed the subject.

"This morning," she replied.

"And I expect I will never have to hear from her again." There was a clear warning in his tone.

Her reaction was stark: She turned toward him in earnest, gaze catching his.. "You won't."

His attention held fast, but only for the span of a moment before it fell away toward her array of texts on the table. "We shall see," he remarked, doubtful.

"You won't," she mumbled again, returning to her text. "She's all excited, anyway, now that Potter's been guilted into possibly tutoring me."

There was no reply, though the man remained in place.

In that expanse of silence, she could feel the weightiness of his gaze boring into her. Expectant. It took her a second, but, with a sigh, she grasped the book beside her before holding it in his direction, her eyes still focused on the open chapter waiting in her lap. "Here."

There was a short pause before her arm was unburdened. Professor Snape performed a quick flourish, twisting the book beneath his arm. In the corner of her eye, she could see it resting at his side. Then, his voice drifted down to her, sardonic, "Five points to Slytherin."

Her head snapped in his direction, gobsmacked. It didn't take long for the shock to radiate into a pleasant sense of humor, but she was careful not to laugh. Her lips twisted into a smile before she took the chance to joke: "Need any other books?"

It was possible she'd imagined it, but his expression seemed to twitch, a momentary uptick in the muscles of his face. Then, within the space of a blink, it was gone. "Not today."

"Fair enough."

It would have ended there. It probably _should_ have ended there. But the levity in the conversation, imagined or not, bolstered her to some degree.

She hesitated, albeit briefly, before turning toward him in her chair. "Professor Snape?"

A raised eyebrow and a toneless hum signaled his attention.

"About my proposal-"

"Not _now,_ Miss Croft," he cut her off. The stern words struck a harsh contrast against his prior tone.

"Not _now?_ " she repeated, pushing her luck further. "So that means there will be a later?"

He slanted her a disapproving look. "I have yet to be sufficiently convinced that it is worth my time."

That statement stung more than it ought have. "I wouldn't bother you if it wasn't-"

"I have business of actual import to attend to," the professor interrupted her, already pivoting away. "Good afternoon, Miss Croft."

"But-"

By the time that pathetic word limped its way out of her mouth, he was halfway across the library.

She waited for almost an hour before Potter arrived. It was hard to say if she was apprehensive or relieved to spot his head of unruly hair amongst the bookshelves.

He checked out a book, glancing over his shoulder as if he was establishing an alibi to be there in the library with her. She put her gaze on the book in her lap as he turned in her direction.

The kid didn't wait around. His trajectory to her table was direct - as was his greeting. "Hey."

She didn't look up. "Hey."

Potter radiated a sort of manic energy; the boy couldn't keep still. His index finger tapped relentlessly atop the book in his hands, but she could feel his intent gaze on the side of her face.

Clearly growing impatient with the quiet, he addressed her with whiplike intensity. "So. Here we are."

 _That_ , of all things, made her look up at him. He appeared... something. She couldn't quite place it. However, there was an odd _determination_ to him. "I'd say that's accurate, yes."

Potter pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table, plopping himself down and staring at her. "Okay- No need to pretend to be polite, now that there's no teachers around."

"What?" she bumbled, eyes trained in a squint.

He pursed his lips. "You wanted to meet here, didn't you?"

"So you could tell me whether or not you wanted to actually tutor me," she reiterated. "Are you here to tell me no, then?"

Potter's frown was pronounced. "What, you're saying you actually _want_ to be tutored by me?" he questioned, disbelieving.

"I only want you to tutor me if it's something you want to do," she clarified, uneasy. "If you don't, you're free to just tell me no."

"You do actually know who I am, right?"

"I'd say it's very difficult to not know who you are."

"Right," was his flat response. "I don't know what your angle is, but I'll agree to tutor you if you answer some questions."

"Okay...?" she agreed, leaning back into her chair.

"Tell me what you know about what Malfoy's up to."

"Why in the world would I know what Malfoy is up to?" she asked, incredulous.

The impatient tapping of his finger resurged, this time thumping at the wooden edge of his armrest. "You're in his House, aren't you?"

"I'm in his House, thus I know everything about him?" she challenged.

" _No,_ " Potter shot back. "But I saw him talking to you yesterday. I want to know why."

"Why do you think?" she snapped, growing irritated. "He throws his weight around. It's all he does now."

"He's already done more than that," he countered. "And I don't intend to let him continue."

"You alone, huh?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You see anyone else doing anything about this?"

Maybe she was letting her anger get the best of her now, but she couldn't help the irate remark that shoved itself from her: "No, Potter, you're literally the _only_ person in this entire school who has the foresight and moxie to stand up to a little prick like Malfoy."

" _Obviously_ I am, since he's still swanning off, doing whatever the hell he wants," Potter said, his dark eyebrows drawn low over his eyes.

"Obviously you are," she repeated, livid, as she went to lay her book back onto the table.

"I don't really care what you think about it," he told her, matter-of-fact. "I've witnessed one too many of Malfoy's dark-corner-meetings to just let it go."

With a furrowed brow, she leaned forward. "Ah, I see. Two Slytherins being in proximity to each other is grounds for conspiracy, huh?"

"Yeah, it is. Especially when he's targeting Muggleborns," Potter shot back. "A fact _you_ don't seem to care about."

Was he _serious?_

"No, wouldn't be of any interest to me at all," she seethed, acerbic.

"Right," was his clipped retort. "So you're not going to answer my questions, then."

"I'm not being obtuse, Potter," she barked. "There's just nothing to say. If you think Malfoy and I are chatting it up in dark corners of the dungeon, then you don't know much about me at all."

For a moment, he just stared at her. Then, a frustrated sigh escaped him. "How is it that Malfoy is such a public arsehole, but _nobody_ knows anything about what he's doing?"

"I imagine asking the wrong people doesn't really help."

Potter scowled at her. "I don't need a lecture from the same girl who decided to kiss up to Snape at my expense," he sneered. "Which is _exactly_ what Malfoy would do, I might add."

" _That's_ the conclusion you drew?"

"I don't know what I was expecting, really," Potter remarked, caustic.

"I'm sorry-" she gasped, exasperated, practically throwing herself back in her seat. "Did I do something to piss you off? I don't understand where this hostility is coming from."

The boy stared at her as if she were insane. "You've been suspended from school, you're having secret meetings with Malfoy, you berated a _teacher-_ And you and Snape are right _chummy,_ aren't you? " he accused her, point-blank.

"You sure like to pretend you know more than you actually do," she observed, scowling.

"I know enough," Potter spat.

Engaging like this wasn't worth it, was it?

"Okay, Potter," she exhaled, using her arms against the table to rig herself into a stand. "Since you find me so revolting to be around, I won't make you waste your time further, then."

He watched her snatch her bag from the table, picking up his own book like it was a shield.

Cleo left most of the texts she had amassed, opting to just walk out of the situation. What else could she do? The air around her felt too oppressive for her to remain a second longer. It was too much - all of it.

She needed to go somewhere. Anywhere. Before this got worse.

••••••••••

There were few places within the confines of the castle where Cleo felt truly safe, but there was one spot, above all others, she returned to time and time again. She'd stumbled upon it in a panic her first year, after getting lost in the chaotic mess of Hogwarts's stairwells. That one room in the castle felt familiar in a way no one had ever understood. She didn't need them to, either. She just knew that when everything hurt, when everything became too much, whenever her desire to be _home_ had reached its most difficult to bear - she came here. Unfailing.

The Divination classroom was empty aside from the smoky haze which regularly swirled about the space. The air smelled strongly of vanilla and patchouli - unmistakable even before she'd ascended the ladder - and every lamp was draped in gauzy fabrics of blue and green, imbuing the space with a distinctly underwater feel. As Cleo passed the rows of columns beside the dias where the professor's armchair sat empty, she noticed that the curtains were drawn on the towering windows all around the octagonal classroom.

She stopped short of the crystal ball seated primly on the table at the front of the classroom, eyes planing around the curve of the glass. It was probably well enough that no one was here.

Her knees gave up on her and she plopped down with a harsh _smack_ on the stair step. Maybe a chair would have been nicer. Appropriate. But what the fuck did appropriate matter? What did nicer matter? Her entire body coalesced into an agonizing pressure that gave way to a throb. It was embarrassing, really, how hard her distress attempted to diffuse itself from her. It was a tension behind her eyelids trying to force its way outward. It was a strain in her throat attempting to spill between her lips. It was a strength in her midsection trying to compress her insides into what felt like a singularity. Her fingers clenched at the edge of the step. Her nose scrunched as her lips squeezed and tried to escape into her mouth - anything to keep that little yelp that nestled itself at the back of her throat from having the pleasure of peeking out.

She wasn't going to cry.

She wasn't going to _fucking_ cry.

What did Potter know? What did Snape know? What did Tenenbaum know? What did any of them know?

They were all with her there, hovering and onerous. She suddenly felt all too aware of her pocket.

She wasn't angry but she didn't want to cry. Her mind and body couldn't agree. The body needed action and the mind made a staunch refusal. It left her in a cold and painful impasse, staring at the crystal ball as if it had any answers.

Her mind appeared to have come to a compromise that she wasn't consciously aware of - or maybe her muscles worked on impulse and memory alone. With no apparent avenue to channel her hurt, her hand wrenched the unwieldy letter from her pocket. Her fingers clasped the edges and the parchment let out a soft yelp as the first bit of it was torn.

Each scrap of paper fluttered to the ground and she waded in them as they pooled like blood around her ankles, bled from the victim she tore apart, piecemeal. It was disgusting, how utterly satisfying it felt. And when the corpse was nothing but a heap of mess that laid about her, broken, she wrapped her arms around her legs and choked on her breath.

Off to her left, a thick curtain of beads stirred, bringing with it a flurry of wooden clacks as hundreds of them bounced off each other. Professor Trelawney herself emerged into the room with all the buoyant energy of a leaf on the wind. Clad in a myriad of sashes and shawls, her attire seemed incomplete due to her lack of jewelry and her limp, pulled-back hair. The woman's gaze alighted on Cleo, brightening with recognition before widening with confusion.

"Oh," she gasped, her voice infused with curiosity. "I wasn't expecting anyone this late."

It was stupid. It really, really was.

Because that's what this entire thing was, wasn't it? A farce. Dramaturgy. Theatrics. Her barging in, unannounced, on the verge of what felt like the billionth crisis that week, and having the _nerve_ , the utter _nerve,_ to look at that woman and feel as if she were at home.

And even _that_ had the gall to hurt.

The tears, bloated and teetering at the corners of her eyes, were a direct defiance to the amount of ugly contortions her face did to keep them from plummeting. But there they were. There they were. Ridiculous. Absolutely bloody ridiculous.

There were so many things she wanted, too. So many things that were too bloody childish to reflect upon, much less list. She felt so guilty about the response and the shameful display she'd created that she immediately swiped the butt of her palm across her eyes, uttering a soft, "I'm so sorry, Professor."

"Dear girl," the woman uttered, grasping her shawls as her willowy form bent toward Cleo. "Whatever is there to be sorry for?"

Everything. Being a disappointment and failure. Being unhinged. Wanting to give up. Not being as tough as she needed to be. Being utterly selfish and self involved. Fucking forcing her emotional bullshit on someone who didn't even ask for it.

Cleo blinked, her tears coming out in a crawl down her cheeks, as she replied, breathless, "I don't know."

Professor Trelawney approached with purposeful vigor, though her touch was overwhelmingly gentle as she cupped Cleo's face in her hands.

Cleo's eyes closed and she leaned into Trelawney's palms. They were soft and lukewarm, the edges of her fingers hinging on the very back of her jaw. For a moment, she thought she could smell her mother's juniper perfume and that, in a moment, she'd feel a forehead pressed against her own, as her mother had done a million times before when she caught Cleo crying.

But there was nothing. Just a moment of consideration and thought, before the air was displaced with the force of Trelawney's nod. "Wait here; I have just the thing!"

The loss of touch was jilting. So much so that she almost wanted to beg Trelawney to come back. Her eyes fluttered open and she watched as the woman's form retreated through the beaded curtain once more before emerging with a gleaming silver kettle in hand. Placing it atop the table by her armchair, she returned to Cleo, ushering her to stand with fluttering hands. "Come, now. I haven't got a fire, but you ought to sit somewhere more comfortable, hm?"

Maybe it was pathetic, but she waited until Trelawney's hands gripped her upper arms to hoist herself into a stand, a few scraps of paper still clinging to her feet, accusing, and only barely managed to amble into the armchair the woman guided her to before being plopped down and abandoned again.

Abandoned.

The woman was only a foot away and she felt _abandoned_.

Jesus Christ.

Trelawney pulled a small box of matches from underneath one of her scarves, making several abortive tries at lighting one of them. When she finally managed it, she lit a small, raised burner directly beneath the kettle, the same that was used for potion making. Even so, it appeared that the water was already heated; she'd likely been preparing for an evening brew before Cleo had arrived.

Fetching a pair of teacups from nearby, Trelawney offered them up for Cleo's consideration. "Which do you prefer?" was her earnest inquiry, spoken as if her choice was of great import.

They were both terrible and chintzy, which somehow _also_ managed to be nostalgic. She sniffed, hard, before pointing to the one covered in violets.

It was placed in her hands with gravitas before the woman shifted her weight toward the tea kettle once more. "A nice cuppa ought to restore you, I should think," Trelawney stated, placing a handful of tea leaves into the container with all the theatrical flourish of a Muggle magician.

Cleo's fingernails drummed against the porcelain outside of her cup as she watched the tendrils of steam climb from the neck of the kettle.

"It was rude of me to blunder in like this," she uttered, miserable.

The professor held up a forestalling hand. "Not at all, my dear. I should have been prepared for this, actually; my horoscope did mention that I would be visited by someone important to me."

"Important to you?" she questioned, bracingly.

"You know, they say that the most significant aspect of divining the transmundane is how well you are paying attention," the woman sighed. She pulled over a chair to sit beside Cleo, patting her on the arm. "How easy it is, to cloud the senses! It was quite careless of me."

"I don't understand," Cleo admitted, bleary eyes drifting toward Trelawney.

"You look a mite peckish, dear," the woman fretted, her eyes refocusing on Cleo. "I've some fairy cakes that would go well with your tea."

There came another pitiful showing of emotion; the doting seemed incidental, but every detail clung to her like a reminder. Her tears were fresh again and she nodded, her words oozing out of her, syrupy and feeble. "I'd like that."

"Lovely! Let me get those for you..."

The woman left once more in a whirl of scarves. When she returned, she carried a plate with her, saying, "You must be wondering why I'm not simply using magic. The truth is, I've been a victim of quite a few omens lately - I nearly fainted straight away and cancelled my afternoon classes when I spotted four crows perched at my windowsill a week past!"

"What does that foretell?"

She grasped a fairy cake that she didn't feel all that inclined to eat - the attention was the satiating portion she'd been after - and watched Trelawney with careful, curious eyes. Whether or not she believed in such things was immaterial - it hadn't ever been like that with her mother. She just liked listening. She liked how her mother would explain her tarot readings at length, or some vision she'd stumbled upon after meditation. It was comforting in a way that Cleo couldn't explain, and hearing Trelawney elucidate in the same manner abated the homesickness, even if it was only a little.

"Four is a very unlucky number, you see," Trelawney explained, a visible shiver going through her. "Normally, four crows are a portent of wealth, but I had just finished making a pot of tea, just like this one, and wouldn't you know it -" She dropped her voice to a grave whisper. " _I accidentally left the lid off!_ "

Cleo's nod was a slow, confused dip. "I see."

"That night, I began having a very strange dream."

"Did you?"

"I was standing in a field of tall grass, just near the entrance to a forest, and it was terribly, _terribly_ dark," the woman told her. "And I stood in the same spot for hours without even a drop of moonlight to comfort me when- the dream simply ended! Nice as you please! I woke in a cold sweat, as dark forests in dreams are dreadful omens, you understand."

Oddly, she did. That was one of the few useless bits of information you hung on to after... lord, three years of Divination?

Truth be told, there wasn't a lot that _couldn't_ be construed to be a bad omen. "I'm sure you've gone about making precautions," Cleo prompted, mellow.

"Well of course," Trelawney assured her. "I've a horseshoe just over my bed to ward off any evil spirits. And, as I've been sniffling for days I fear some illness has come for me, so I've been carrying acorns in my pocket and hiding them about the classroom..."

"Then I'm sure you'll be safe, Professor."

The woman patted her hand. "That's quite nice of you to say... Oh! The tea must be done by now, I should think."

Picking up the tea kettle, she gestured that Cleo should present her cup first. Hot steam warmed Cleo's palms as the smell of bergamot surrounded her, the tea leaves swirling loose in her cup.

She wasn't all that up to drinking. Though, if she knew anything about Trelawney, the tea wasn't just meant to be tea. She was careful on the first sip, grimacing slightly as a bit of tea leaf caught itself on her front tooth. She massaged her tongue over it, eyes focused on the table as she uttered a soft, slightly garbled: "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," she replied, pouring her own portion as well. "This is my favorite - Lady Grey. I figure you and I should be safer from whatever illness is lurking nearby."

"What makes you think it's an illness?"

For a moment, the woman simply stared into the middle distance, as if her train of thought had been derailed. "Oh... Do you not remember? Dark forests - omens of neglect. Perhaps I haven't been eating enough radishes..."

These were the instances that weren't so nostalgic - Trelawney, for all the parts of her that were endearing and worth admiring, had an absolute talent for talking over everyone in the room. A soft hum rumbled in Cleo's chest in response, as she took another swig of her tea.

Trelawney's porcelain teacup clinked against the saucer as she placed hers down. "So," the woman lilted, a clear lead-in to another topic. "I sense you are quite troubled by something."

Cleo's eyes snapped to the horrible mess she'd abandoned on the steps of the dias, and with a pained grimace, she leaned forward and covered her face. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"Nothing to worry about, my dear," Trelawney assured her, adjusting her shawl to sit more comfortably. "Although, I don't think it quite harmonizes the space."

The levity was wasted on her, embarrassed as she was. "I shouldn't have done it."

"Well - it's only a bit of parchment," Trelawney commented. "No harm done."

"It was a letter, actually," she confessed.

This earned her a confused blink from the woman. "A letter? From whom?"

"Do you remember Cal?"

"Your friend? I remember you inviting him up here for lunch a few times."

It was certainly something _he_ never really appreciated, regardless of how kind he'd been about it. How easily a nice memory could sour, when confronted with a pattern of her self-centeredness. She grit her teeth briefly before nodding. "Yeah. It was from him."

Trelawney grimaced sympathetically. "Bad news, then?"

"Probably," she exhaled, her hands going to grasp her legs tightly. "He hates me now, I think."

There was a shrewd, expectant attention to her gaze. "Probably?" she questioned.

Having her uncertainty shoved in her face like that made her avoidance seem all the more childish, but she insisted: "There's no other reason to write me."

"Have you not read it?"

"I read enough of it."

"How much?"

"Enough to know how much of an absolute arsehole I am," she sniped, defensive, before flinching away. "Sorry. Shit-" Her eyes slammed shut and she bit down on her lip, hard. "I mean- sorry. _Sorry_. I didn't mean to-"

She cut off, mortified. Trelawney hardly seemed to notice her gaffe. "I had no idea this boy was so vicious," she murmured, a hand to her chest.

"He's not!" she objected, feeling her cheeks heat. Great. She'd somehow made him the villain, when he'd done _nothing_ wrong. "He's always been so kind."

"Oh - but you said..."

"If he wrote to me angrily, he would be fully justified," she said, leaning forward to grasp her fairy cake again, before nervously stuffing a large bite into her mouth.

"If there were no bitter words between you, why didn't you read the rest?" the professor inquired, remembering her own cup of tea.

"Because I know what it's going to say."

"You do?!" the woman gasped, earnest. "Has your Inner Eye finally revealed itself to you?"

"No, it's not like that," Cleo stammered, running out of steam.

"Then how could you know?"

Her eyes rolled upward as a bitter laugh expelled from her. "Because I completely blanked him out for two years. I left school, promising that I'd keep in contact, but I didn't. I shut everyone out. It's tantamount to saying I don't care. Who wouldn't be mad? And like, what can I say? I can't explain myself. I deserve it. I keep acting in this way and it just-"

She cut herself short, falling back in her chair. Trelawney frowned.

"It seems likely," she began, her voice oddly sober, "that if your friend hasn't heard from you in two years, and he truly hated you as you say, it would make more sense for him to never send you a letter at all."

Maybe so. But it didn't help that she saw the opposite just as likely to happen. "It doesn't matter," she concluded, folding her hands into her lap. "The point's moot."

"Why not read it?" the professor asked.

She simply stared at Trelawney, gaze carrying the brunt of her exhaustion.

"Well." The woman petted a shawl on her arm as if it were a cat. "If _you_ don't want to read it, then _I_ do."

Trelawney rose from her seat, promptly walking over to the scattered pieces of parchment that lay on the floor. Carefully, she gathered all of them, bringing them back to where Cleo sat. Taking up her wand, she resumed her seat before halting herself abruptly, her eyes going wide. Turning to Cleo, she uttered the simple plea, "Er... Repair them for me?"

"I'm not any better at reconstitution spells," Cleo pointed out, albeit a bit petulant.

With a frown, the woman stared at the bits of letter in her hand. Her expression was worried, fearful, as she turned her gaze back to Cleo.

Cleo's head dipped. Right. The omens. _Fuck._ She was such a jerk.

With a shake of her head, she leaned forward, collecting the pieces of paper and setting them in a small pile on the table. "Nevermind, I'll try," she promised, before reaching into her robes to retrieve her wand. She dragged the tip of it in a lazy circle around the pile, uttering a soft: " _Recolligo._ "

It took a second, but the paper pieces began to shift, organizing themselves back into the shape of a letter. Cleo was careful to keep her eyes adrift from the sentences, lest she catch another word that could set her heart going. She scowled and tapped the edge of the parchment. " _Reparo._ "

The tears stitched themselves together before the letter sat there, intact, as if it hadn't been assaulted at all. Haphazard, Cleo fell back into her seat, turning her head to stare at the rows of cushions climbing toward the entrance of the room

"Thank you," the professor said, voice softer now that the threat to her had receded. She took up the letter and began to read.

The next minute dragged by like a wounded man on the front line. Hyperbole again. But it felt agonizing, her mind sifting through a collection of reactions the professor could possibly have, all ranging from horrible to catastrophic. She didn't want to look it, but she felt herself edging deeper into her seat, frightened, just absolutely _dreading_ the moment that Trelawney would speak and elucidate at length the depths to which her former best friend hated her.

When Trelawney was finished, she placed the offending document down in her lap, peering at Cleo curiously. "Three and a half years in my class, and your Divination skills don't seem to have improved at all!" she lamented with a sigh.

"What?"

She gestured pointedly to the parchment. "There is nothing at all angry or hateful about this letter."

She hadn't envisioned this eventuality, so she had no response, other than to stare at Trelawney, frowning. The professor went on: "I think this is a perfectly safe read, my dear." She performed a grand gesture at herself. "And that's coming from someone who knows an omen when she sees one."

Cleo's next movements were fluid: Bent at the waist, she grasped the letter as Trelawney proffered it to her, and took in a breath.

 _To the lovely Miss Cleo_ , she read again. It still felt biting. But she continued to the next scathing portion of the letter: _Oi! I haven't heard from you in a while. You said you'd write, and I'll have you know I am properly offended that I have to get off my arse and send this first._

Muscle memory had her wanting to toss the thing away again, but when she glanced up, Trelawney's eyes caught hers. Not a word passed between them, but the woman prompted her with a nod, and Cleo swallowed before looking down to finish the rest.

 _For shame!_ _But seriously, I hope you're doing alright in Muggle land. You live in Brighton, yeah? If this letter reaches you, I'll know my experiment of not putting your address on the envelope was a success. Here's hoping. I've got 10 galleons resting on it._ _I'm all graduated now. Which is sort of rubbish, honestly; I'm cleaning dung out of bank vaults. It's disgusting. Trust me, you leave school, and it's all downhill, so count yourself lucky. My life is all very "stereotypical medieval drama underdog" right now. I miss you filling me in on all the silly television things. Sadly, Mum is still very against electricity._ _Anyway, I know you're busy, but you're welcome to visit. Bring your whole family if you like. Although, I'd be careful, since my aunts will probably drown everyone in tea. They're like that about visitors. Considering there are people of the Muggle persuasion in your family tree, they will also have no end of deeply uncomfortable questions to ask about your "exotic" lifestyle. Look forward to that!_ _Personally, I've never met any Muggles, and therefore my reaction is, as yet, untested. So... Will you at least do it for science? Oh, by the way, I've been learning about science. Mum hates technology, but she loves books, so she got me some big fancy Muggle ones. Not actual books about real science, but... children's books I think? With great big cutesy pictures all over? They don't move, I might add, but I think that's for the best. There's one called "Do It For Science". I also learned about tuberculosis and recycling. Not at the same time. You know what I mean._ _Well, I'm running out of parchment. You know what that means? You should come see me face to face, so I can ramble at you in person._ _Or, you know. At least send me your address. For science._ _Much love, Cal_

Her entire body shivered heavily on an exhale, a hand going to cover her mouth. She had no compunctions about sobbing openly this time. Trelawney rested a hand on her shoulder, a warm, stable weight.

Cleo looked up at her, a sob hiccoughing through her, before she announced with a shaky laugh: "I'm such an idiot."

"No, you aren't," the woman gently chided her.

"I worked myself up like this," she bemoaned, letting out another sob, "for what? This? I'm so... _dramatic,_ god-"

Trelawney waved a hand through the air, as if she were dispersing the thought. "It's nothing that can't be fixed, dear," she insisted, beginning to rub Cleo's back soothingly.

It was hard to feel comforted when faced with the reality that she'd nearly left this letter - this sweet, heartfelt indicator that her old friend was _reaching out_ \- in a crumpled, torn heap on the floor of the Divination classroom. She sagged under the weight of the day, all her inadequacies piled up around her; now that she had fully gotten started, her tears streamed endlessly on.

Her professor acted as a lean-to that Cleo bore her whole weight against. Shamelessly, she turned her head and buried her face into the woman's hip.

A single world weaseled its way out, in between her cries and the shawls. "Professor."

"Hm?"

The woman's fingers dragged the full load of her head upward, the delicate curve of her palm cradling her damp cheek. She forced Cleo to look head on at her and, in that blur, Cleo let out a bitter laugh.

"I'm going crazy," she whimpered, her fingers reaching to grasp the woman's wrist, as if the very presence of it anchored her there. "I don't think I can do this."

"Whatever do you mean?"

Her head shook and the room itself felt as if it were beginning to buckle beneath her, burdened by the tremendous weight of her grief.

"I can't stay."


	4. Mutual

And here we come to chapter four, after what feels like a whole forever of writing. Thank you so much for your patience. We hope you enjoy it. Thank you also, as ever, to our lovely betas. We love you.

••••••••••

It was breakfast and a bomb had dropped.

The suspended silence was wedged between the bomb's deafening impact and the sudden, piercing screams of survivors. Cleo felt the collective panic like a punch to the gut.

But that was hyperbole working again. The truth of it: It was breakfast and she had a letter.

'To the lovely Miss Cleo,' it accused, and her stomach turned away from her.

 _Cal._

The handwriting impressed upon her before any of the words could. Before she'd even read her name, she knew. There was no return address- he never bothered with those. There wasn't even a sending address. Just "Clytemnestra Croft" written in his unmistakable scrawl.

It was a miracle in and of itself that it had made its way to her.

In a distracted lapse of anxiety, she tore the side open and pulled the bit of parchment from the confines of its envelope (another odd, uncharacteristic detail - where did he get an envelope?); her initial instinct was a momentary jolt of excitement.

But then the guilt settled only seconds after she'd caught the beginning of the letter. _To the lovely Miss Cleo_.

Immediately, she knew she was anything but.

Her glimpse of the first paragraph didn't help matters.

 _Oi! I haven't heard from you in a while. You said you'd write, and I'll have you know I am properly offended that I have to get off my arse and send this first._

Her reaction was histrionic: Her arm snapped over, turning the letter prone and away from her, as if she had seen something she shouldn't have. Her head tossed itself skyward and she grimaced.

"You all right?"

Cleo couldn't see her, but she recognized the first year's voice. Her lips flattened into an embarrassed scowl and she rolled her shoulders back. "Yes."

She heard the wooden bench across from her settle as someone plopped themselves down. There was a beat of a pause, then:

"What's that?"

Cleo managed to pull her head down as her fingers drummed themselves idly on the back of the parchment. "A letter."

"Oh," Thea breathed, brown curls bobbing, haphazard, as she canted her head. "Who from?"

 _Does it matter? What's it to you?_

She closed her eyes against this impulse and swallowed. "A friend."

Thea reached across the table to grab a piece of toast that Cleo had left abandoned on her plate. "That's nice," she commented. "I like getting letters. Especially from my mums. They send me packages."

Cleo was grateful for the unorthodox syntax, if only because it allowed her an opportunity to deflect attention away from her. "Mums?" she asked as she leaned her cheek into the palm of her hand.

"Yep, got two," Thea hummed, a bit guarded, before taking a bite of toast. Mouth still full, she shot back to Cleo: "How many do you have?"

"Just the one," she replied, eyes crawling to the back of the parchment again.

Thea waited a moment before remarking: "I like that answer."

"Why's that?"

"Nothing - it's stupid," she dismissed. There was a moment of reticence as Thea fiddled with the piece of toast in her fingers before she looked up, sheepish. "Thanks for not making me explain."

Cleo could only wonder how many times that had come up before.

However, her principle acknowledgement was a wave of the hand. "What do they send you?"

"Care packages, usually," Thea explained. "I mean, I've only gotten one since I've been here. But they used to do this when I went to camp."

"Camp kid too, huh?" Cleo mused, her lips upticked in a small smile.

"You bet," Thea shot back, playful. "You ever go?"

"No. My dad tried to get me to go once, but I got homesick immediately and demanded I be brought back home."

"What a baby," Thea teased as she grabbed a clementine from one of the fruit bowls nearby.

Cleo hummed softly in agreement. "What sort of camp did you go to?"

"Space camp," Thea supplied, her fingernails puncturing the peel of her clementine. "I've only been twice, over the summers, but it was loads of fun."

"Space camp," Cleo murmured, thoughtful. "Y'know, that was the only sort of camp that seemed at all interesting to me. What do you even do there?"

"Stargazing, mostly. At least the one I went to did. Nothing fancy, not like some of the American camps my Mums looked at. But all my counselors knew heaps of things, and we learned where to find all the constellations. Not to mention - I saw _Saturn_ for the first time! Can you believe that?" She plopped a piece of clementine in her mouth, her eyes glimmering, as if enraptured with a recollection. "Saturn's _so_ big that you can see it all the way here with a telescope! I could even see the _rings!_ Most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life!"

Cleo's voice was wistful, but kind. "Sounds very important to you."

"You should try it," Thea insisted after swallowing. "I could show you. I still remember the spot."

"I've seen her before," Cleo told her. "Second year Astronomy."

"Professor Sinistra's going to let us look at _planets?!_ " Thea suddenly gasped, a tinge of excitement flaring her words. "So far, it's only been constellations! I got twenty points last Wednesday for knowing where Ursa Major and Ursa Minor are! I can't believe we'll get to look at _planets!_ "

Thea's mention of points approached her, struck her square in the chest. Snape's voice, unwelcome, careened into the fray. _Forgive me for taking a particle of thought for the fact that your actions do not simply affect you_.

For Thea to be so excited over her success, it suddenly seemed all the more disgusting that Cleo's indiscretion had erased it all. God. _God_.

"... You okay?"

"What?"

"I mean, I get worked up over space too," Thea joked, gentle.

She hadn't noticed until it was pointed out. A faint heat emanated from her eyes, punctuated by a sting that didn't register until Cleo blinked. She was quick to swipe her forearm over her face. "No, no," she dismissed. "It's nothing. You're fine."

"Maybe you should read your letter," Thea suggested. "I know hearing from my friends and family always makes me happy."

Her lips twitched into a quick smile before she said, "Maybe later."

"Why not now?"

Plenty of reasons. None that seemed worthwhile to share. Not without running the risk of sounding ridiculous. Cleo remained silent and shoveled a spoonful of cold oatmeal into her mouth.

The conversation petered out uncomfortably, the two of them eating their food, until Thea piped up again a few minutes later, eager.

"So, uhm, who's your friend?"

Cleo didn't mean to sound as ashamed as she did when she said his name: "Caleb."

"Oh. Is he a Muggle?"

Cleo shook her head. "No, he's a wizard."

Thea's eyes squinted in confusion. "Then... wait - why isn't he _here?_ "

Cleo glanced away from her, toward the ceiling again. "Because he graduated last year."

"Oh."

"Mm."

Another pause. Thea appeared as if she were working through her own suspicions. "It's nice that he writes you."

"Yeah," Cleo sighed, noncommittal.

She observed as Thea's body shifted, one side to the left, awkward and self conscious. "I'm sorry if I'm talking too much. It's just-"

Cleo's eyes closed. God. _Fucking_ God. _Fucking Christing God on a fucking crutch._ She was the worst. _The absolute fucking worst._ Couldn't even play _polite_ and _nice._ Had to make a fucking eleven year old feel awful for trying to be _friendly._ For making an _effort._ For-

"No, Thea," Cleo asserted, tender voice traveling across the table to grasp her. "You're fine. I'm sorry. I'm in an odd mood, I think. It's not you, I promise."

"It's okay to be sad," the girl said quietly. "That's what mum tells me. It's okay to be sad. You don't have to, you know, hide it."

Cleo couldn't help it; at that juncture, deflecting felt like the only comfortable thing to do. "Which mum?" she teased, tilting her head.

Thea rolled her eyes, albeit with a grin. "Mama Sophie. She has a lot of good advice about being sad."

"Does she?"

"It's 'cause she deals with it a lot," Thea explained. "It's her entire job."

Cleo squinted. "What does she do?"

"She's a mortician," Thea told her with a tinge of pride that time, seemingly catching a second wind from Cleo's previous lack of judgement.

"That's unique."

"Lots of things about my mums are unique," Thea pointed out.

"I believe you."

"What about yours?"

Cleo raised an eyebrow. "What, my parents?"

"Yeah," Thea prompted.

"You sure you feel comfortable with this?"

She frowned, bemused. "Huh?"

"We've shared a lot of personal things," Cleo reminded her, giving her a knowing look. "I want to make sure you feel okay with it."

"Oh." The girl's head lowered a bit, mouth twisting, pensive. "I hadn't really thought about it."

"We don't have to say anything else."

There appeared to be a deliberation that passed over the girl's expression before her posture straightened, gaze growing more determined, confident. "We're the same," she announced, clearly on the tail end of some conclusion. "So I just, you know, felt safe."

The hint of a smile wormed its way across Cleo's lips, before inching away into neutrality. "This will all just stay here with me, I promise."

"I know," Thea said, before she gazed at Cleo, expectant. "So...?"

"Well," Cleo started with a sharp exhale. "My Dad's a midwife, and my mum..." Sure was... a whole lot of things. "... well, she's a stay at home mother. But there's lots of things she likes to do."

"Like what?" Thea asked, fishing in the bowl for yet another clementine, not long after she'd polished off the first.

"Painting, gardening, meditating," Cleo listed, before letting out a short laugh. "Protesting."

"My mums do that too," Thea said, frowning as a bit of juice squirted from the fruit after she'd dug too deep with her fingers. With an ineloquent duck of her head, she licked the lines that bisected her wrists, before adding: "I don't know a lot about it. They say I'm too young. But they do a lot of marching. And they let me help them make their signs. Mama Carol says it's good to be... engaged."

"She's right."

"Do you protest with your mum?"

"Sometimes," was Cleo's nonchalant answer.

Thea picked up the slack from Cleo's clipped speech. "I wish I could go with my mums," she admitted. "It feels bad, sometimes, because they always seem to be fighting against something. I hate seeing them do it on their own. I want to help."

Cleo's chest felt weighted by something she couldn't describe and her response poured from her, drunk on its confidence, "You do enough."

Thea's laugh was skeptical. "How do you know?"

"I just do."

"Yeah, well," Thea sighed, "It makes me frustrated. I want to fight too."

"You're too young to be fighting."

"It's not like I have a choice," Thea countered, a bit put off. "I'm not a baby."

Cleo's frown grew more prominent. "I wasn't trying to say you were."

"It's just not fair," she complained, "sometimes Mama Carol cries over the fact she can't adopt me, because it's not allowed. They already can't get married. And it makes me mad. I hate that they make her cry."

Cleo's fingers tightened around her bowl of oatmeal. What could she possibly argue, in that instance?

"Can I ask you something?"

Strangely wary, Cleo answered, "What is it?"

Thea hesitated, her eyes seeming to focus on Cleo's face oddly.

"What?"

"Just-" Thea began, apprehensive. "How old are you?"

Cleo's laugh kicked out of her. "You're nervous to ask me _that?_ "

"I mean-"

"I'll be twenty in two weeks."

"Oh," Thea mumbled. "So, you are older."

A heat on the back of Cleo's neck flared. "Yes I am."

"So that means it's true," Thea concluded.

"What's true?"

"You know," Thea said in a lower register. "That you left."

Cleo leaned back against her own anxiety, crowded in the air just at her shoulders. The room felt quieter. Which was ridiculous - of course it wasn't. The dull roar of surrounding voices hadn't waned any great deal, but in her ears they quieted against the accusation in Thea's voice.

"I... did."

"Why?"

Cleo tore her eyes away from the table to look at Thea. "Does it matter?"

"I guess not," Thea conceded. "I just wanted to hear it from you."

"Hear it from me," Cleo echoed, flat.

"I didn't want to listen to rumors."

"Rumors are _fun,_ " Cleo uttered with levity, her hands going into her lap.

"What I mean is, you're my friend," Thea explained, sitting up straighter, "and I don't think it's fair to listen to rumors about something like that."

Cleo's insides broke into a faint warmth. "What did you hear?"

"Nothing concrete," Thea assured her. "Just... something about a Gryffindor you used to know."

She hated how that accusation settled next to her: Overly familiar, oblivious to how unwelcome it was, fancying itself an old friend. It made it all the more difficult to not express her frustration, but Cleo managed.

"It did involve him, yes."

Thea leaned forward, urgent. "Wait, it did?"

"Yes."

"But... then, what happened?" Thea's expression softened. "It... it wasn't like defense class, was it?"

What, she'd heard about that too?

Well, no, of course she had. Losing all of Slytherin's house points wasn't going to remain a secret. But the fact that Thea's mind had lept to Cleo's public display of rage made her insides twist uncomfortably.

"It wasn't like that," Cleo promised her. "It's just, when I was seventeen, I met Benjamin and-"

"Miss Croft."

\- and that was the end of that. The soft squeak of wheels arrived alongside Professor Tenenbaum's interruption and Cleo looked to her, apprehensive.

"Good morning, Professor," she wheedled the greeting from her collecting anxiety in some vain attempt to make it productive.

Professor Tenenbaum didn't seem all that interested in pleasantries. "I received your timetable from Professor Snape," she disclosed.

"I see."

"You have a two hour block of free time before your N.E.W.T. Divination class at nine thirty," the Professor replied dully, her papery cheek resting in the cleft of her palm. "I figured that would be an appropriate time to schedule your detentions, yes?"

"I don't have a problem with that."

Her eyes lit up, voice lilting with a sardonic response, " _Well,_ so long as you don't have a problem with it."

Cleo flinched. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that-"

"I'll expect you soon, Miss Croft. We'll be meeting at the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest today. Please don't run late."

That meant "come now," more than anything else. Cleo understood that implicitly.

Though, as the professor began to wheel herself away, she stopped briefly to flash a brilliant smile at Thea. "Miss Waters. How is your _Fumos_ coming along?"

"Better," Thea answered, her eyes volleying between Cleo and the professor. However, in some lapse of hesitation, the girl's lips folded into a smile. "It looks more like fog than just cloud now."

"Very good," the woman praised. "Keep practicing. I'd like you to show me when we do practicals tomorrow."

"Yes ma'am."

There was a rapid shift in her demeanor when Professor Tenenbaum glanced to Cleo once more - put off, but with a begrudging sense of beckoning to it.

Cleo about caved in on herself, but remained stalwart, watching as the woman's purple wheelchair did an about face and headed toward the exit of the Great Hall. Her breath all but beat itself out of her.

"Cleo?" Thea prompted.

"I should go," Cleo stated, beginning to stand, attention glued to the teacher's slowly fading silhouette.

"Okay."

Cleo's head drifted back to look down at the first year and, with a half-weary smile, she promised, "I'll tell you about it later, okay?"

Whatever vague disappointment existed in the girl's posture evaporated from her as she sat up taller, smiling once more. "Okay!"

She'd slung her bag over her shoulder and began to walk away when she heard Thea's voice again. "Wait, Cleo?"

She stopped dead in her tracks, frowning over her shoulder. "What?"

Thea casually placed her fingers on the edge of the parchment laid abandoned on the table, pushing it toward her. "You almost forgot your letter."

"Oh." Almost. A near miss. If only.

There was a weighty gait to her steps when she returned to retrieve the letter, and she folded it sloppily before stuffing it into her pocket.

"Have fun at detention," Thea sang to her, attention focused on breakfast once more.

••••••••••

The professor had arrived long before Cleo had the chance to. When she passed the edge of the grounds, the first thing she spotted was Professor Tenenbaum tutting over a largeish tree at the center of a clearing - quite an uncommon sight within the confines of the cluttered forest.

Her presence was greeted with a prompt order hastily flung from the end of an arm proffered toward her: "Give me those shears."

Casting her eyes about, Cleo obediently fetched the tool from off a nearby, obviously conjured, table. They were snatched from her hands with a clipped _thanks_ and Cleo took a step back, eyeing the foliage again.

The woman hacked off one of the branches; it was shrivelled and charred, more like a raisin than the reaching arm of a tree. There was an inordinate portion of time where the professor seemed to ignore her outright, and Cleo steeped herself in the silence, off kilter, observing as the woman continued to mutilate the tree with every snap of her shears.

A compulsion came at the apex of this horrendous in-between, an impulse to fill the silence, if only to diminish the discomfort that was beginning to gorge itself on the quiet the longer the two of them stood there.

Hands clasped behind her back, she revealed herself with a loud breath, before reciting: "Professor Tenenbaum, I just wanted, first of all, to tell you how sorry I am about how I acted-"

"My, you really don't listen, do you?" Professor Tenenbaum mused aloud, still focused on the tree.

Winded, Cleo faltered. "I-"

"As I've said," the woman said, regarding a particular area of bark that held her attention rapt, "sorry doesn't mean anything."

All Cleo could muster was a bewildered, blundering, "Then, what could I possibly do to make up for-"

"You'll do as you're told, perhaps?" the woman suggested.

"I was horrified," Cleo prefaced, taking a step closer. "If it's a matter of sincerity, I can promise you that I _do_ feel awful about it."

"I'm sure you do," Professor Tenenbaum remarked. "That's not in question."

"I don't understand?"

"It's really rather simple, Miss Croft," the Professor assured her, finally deigning to glance in her direction. "I don't respect people who don't respect me."

"I _do-_ "

"You most certainly _do not,_ " the woman interjected with a wry chuckle. "And I don't particularly care, either. You don't survive in the real world being concerned with how much everyone you meets likes you. I know you'd rather kiss a Banshee than be in my class- that was apparent from the moment you arrived. But, to be frank, Miss Croft, the bottom line is that if you aren't interested in learning, then I'm not all that interested in teaching you."

As if some pretense had been dropped, Cleo's posture drooped and she asked, dejected, "If that's the case, then why the scene?"

"Because most of the time, when people can't force themselves to give a toss about a class, they keep to themselves, not sabotage lessons. By all means, be as incompetent as you'd like. Skive off, if it pleases you. But I won't abide by disruptions. Everyone else is there to _learn_ and when I have to halt everything to deal with _you,_ it means that _everyone else_ is adversely affected. It takes away from their time to learn. That's not fair, is it?"

She didn't know what bothered her more: the fact that this very same sentiment had a habit of being thrown into her face as of late, or the fact that a modicum of truth laid within it and she didn't have the strength to deal with it right now.

"No," Cleo answered after a pause. "It's not."

"Well, there you go," Professor Tenenbaum returned, breezy. "You aren't a lost cause after all."

"But, ma'am?"

That caught the woman's attention. Her wheelchair shifted in its hover to face Cleo as the woman's head canted.

"I don't hate your class," Cleo explained. "I wouldn't have taken it had I not been pressured, no, but I've never had any intention of disrupting anything. You're a good teacher and, even though you've made it clear that you hate me saying this, I'm sorry if my lack of enthusiasm communicated any sense of disrespect. I don't think your class is a waste of time."

The lack of reaction in the professor's expression was unsettling. Her affect was completely flat, unmoved, as if she hadn't heard what Cleo had said at all. Or didn't care.

However, after a moment, something shifted in the woman's countenance. Or, well, more accurately, she glanced from Cleo to the tree, her posture in her wheelchair growing relaxed.

"You'll be helping me set wards for tomorrow's lesson," she announced, turning toward the forest. "What do you know of limnal boundaries?"

"Do you mean liminal?"

A scoff blurted from the woman's mouth. "I'm not in the habit of misspeaking, no. I mean _limnal_. I'll take your confusion as an utter lack of understanding of the subject?"

"That'd be safe."

That, above all else, drew the first genuine reaction from the professor: She laughed. It was a raspy, rumbling sort of noise that bubbled deep in her chest. "It's rather simple," she prefaced, rapping her knuckles on the tree beside her. "In here is a nasty creature which I would rather not inflict on the world at large. I want to make sure it cannot leave this clearing. So, how do you suppose we keep that from happening?"

"Drawing a boundary it cannot pass."

"Exactly," she acknowledged. "We define a section of space, and we use that to direct the flow of magic. You following so far?"

Cleo's head bobbed slightly as she stepped forward. "So you delineate where you want the boundary to be, and you use the flow of magic to enforce it. Right?"

"In a sense. That 'flow of magic' we are talking about is what wizards call wards," the professor said, waving her wand in a lazy curlicue. "They're magical instructions placed on a limnal boundary, allowing it to do its work."

Cleo chewed the inside of her cheek momentarily before asking, "How do you... I don't know, specify the instructions? It can't just be a magical word, can it?"

Professor Tenenbaum rolled back a short distance in air, gesturing toward the edge of the clearing. "When the boundary is drawn, it is connected to what is called a 'foundational object'. That object - whatever it is - essentially acts as a proxy for the entire area you defined. So, when you attach spells to it, they are distributed across the whole space."

"So it's not a single spell, but a network of spells."

The woman performed a waffling shrug, her head bouncing side to side as she considered. "In essence? Yes. But if we're to paint a complete picture: sometimes it _is_ and sometimes it _isn't._ That all depends on what you're trying to accomplish. Something like an Unplottable Ward tends to run on the more complicated side, whereas a Caterwauler is about as simple as it gets."

"So... how complicated did you want this ward to be?"

"I intend to spice it up a bit, but it's important to start simple. First, set the boundary. Second, attach the foundation object. _Third_ \- and this is crucial - lay down your ward parameters _before_ you place the ward. Fourth, establish the obstruction spell which will keep the creature trapped inside. See? Simple."

Yeah. Simple. _Sure._

There was an unexpected shout which wafted toward them from the edge of the clearing. "Oi Bridge, we alright to cross?" Ren was standing beneath the canopy of trees, accompanied by none other than Harry Potter, who was shuffling his feet and looking around curiously.

"The hell do you think?" Professor Tenenbaum called back, distracted.

The man made his way toward them, not appearing perturbed by her tone. As he drew near, Cleo could see that his look was as eclectic as it usually was: His skin was tinged purple, and red, downy feathers peppered his body. Long hair askew, and strawberry blonde today she noticed, he walked with a lumbering gait, likely due to the long rat's tail which trailed along behind him. Despite the colorful array, Ren was attired very plainly, his hands stuffed in the pockets of an oversized, dark denim jacket. Crossing in front of Professor Tenenbaum, he completed a leisurely twirl.

"How do you like my look?" he questioned with a theatrical vamp, ruined by the fact he nearly tripped over the tail.

"Garish and hideous, as always," Professor Tenenbaum volleyed back, though in a tone that Cleo caught as distinctly and oddly... _loving._

Ren shrugged, his smirk unwavering. "Ah, well. Guess I'll have to try harder next time."

Potter, hovering at the outskirts of their small circle, cleared his throat. "Er, you asked for me, Professor?"

Everything about Professor Tenenbaum brightened a considerable deal when she addressed Potter, the shift so jarring that it was difficult not to gawp. "Harry, good. Would you come with me a moment? I wanted to speak with you on a matter."

The boy acquiesced readily enough. Ren pivoted to watch them go, but then he abruptly turned around to point a finger in her direction. "Oh! Cleo!" he exclaimed as if he'd only just noticed she was there. "Been meaning to talk to you."

 _That_ sounded unsettlingly conspiratorial. "Have you?"

"Yes!" he declared, triumphant. "And wouldn't you know it, we've got ourselves the perfect opportunity."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Did you know that when I attended this _noble_ institution," this was said with a tinge of mockery, "I was a Gryffindor?"

"Imagine that."

"A tragically typical one, I might add," he lamented. Though, considering his current appearance, that was a bit hard to believe. "But still, I heard about what happened in class yesterday."

"I would hazard a guess that everyone has at this point," she pointed out, subdued.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of!" Ren argued, jovial. "Hell, I've had it out with Bridge before too; she's... _herself._ "

Well, he was perhaps the first person to share that sentiment. She couldn't say if that was a comfort or not. "Yes, well, in the end, you're not exactly the person she thinks is an unhinged, disrespectful idiot are you?"

The man squinted at her, feathers rumpling as he shrugged. "I like to consider myself the de facto expert on 'what Bridgette Tenenbaum would think', and I can confirm she thinks _none_ of those things," he pointed out. "Look, she's not concerned about this or that thing that you've said. She's been called worse, believe me. Bridge doesn't put any stock in words."

Well, that was already apparent. Cleo didn't say anything, though - just observed as he waffled through his next statement.

"You're only... Eh... Okay, here's the thing: her temper is _extra_ foul with people like you."

"People like me," she repeated in a low murmur.

"The smart ones," he clarified, earnest. "The ones who could be leaps and bounds ahead, if only they took a step forward."

"I think you're both overestimating my capabilities," she put in tiredly.

Ren grinned at her. "Nah, she's trained up loads of rookies in her day, and she's _never_ wrong about the potential of her students. And me? My approach isn't as logical."

She was sensing a pattern here. Ren appealed to flattery, to over inflate her abilities. Professor Tenenbaum, however, appealed to her guilt. She preferred the professor's method better. At least it was honest. At least it was willing to call her out on her bullshit.

"Your approach?"

"Well, I guess I'd call it more of a _philosophy,_ " he mused, tapping a finger on his chin. "I believe that everyone can accomplish great and previously-impossible feats, but they limit themselves- Which is why _I'm_ an oddball with below-average accomplishments." His grin grew larger, his tone incredibly bright. "It's my dream come true! You, though? I don't think you're the same."

"You don't, huh?"

"Yeah," Ren said, stuffing his hands in both pockets once more, "otherwise, you wouldn't have come back."

" _Jesus,_ " she expelled all of a sudden, her first break in composure. "How many of you people know about that?"

The man before her raised both eyebrows, hands burrowing into his jacket pockets. Then, his mirth bubbled over and he threw his head back in a full laugh. "Well, what did you expect? I'm a teacher's assistant!"

She wasn't certain what that had to do with anything, but she didn't really want to know either, lest she be privy to some meeting Dumbledore called to discuss her private matters. Scowling, she turned away, her eyes catching on the image of Potter and the professor speaking, not that far away. Tenenbaum didn't look happy. _Fantastic._

"If you knew a thing about it," Cleo grumbled, "you'd realize coming back was a stupid idea."

Ren sobered, shifting his weight with another shrug. "Well- I don't know," he remarked, following her gaze toward the other pair. " _Maybe_ you're right. But in my experience, it's the stupid ideas that yield the best results."

Her expression became incredulous. That didn't even make sense.

He looked in her direction, smile returning. "Tell you what, I'll do you one better in the ideas department."

Cleo looked at him, her mouth ready on a response. However, just then, she caught the frayed edges of Professor Tenenbaum's voice.

"You're sure you won't reconsider?" she cajoled, and Cleo could hear a sharp clack as she dropped her head against the back of her wheelchair.

Potter scratched the side of his head, bashful. "Sorry, Professor."

The woman let out a soft, dissatisfied hum. Ren lifted his hands from his pockets and clapped them together, the singular sound booming in the quiet clearing.

"All done, then?" he raised his voice toward the other two.

"That appears to be the case, yes," the professor murmured, the wind stolen from her sails.

"I've just had the most _brilliant_ idea in the known world. Do you want to hear it?" Ren prompted, jauntily rolling back on his heels.

All three of them didn't answer. None of them looked at him, either. Cleo's eyes faced the floor. Potter still seemed abashed. Professor Tenenbaum had all the look of dread about her.

Undeterred, Ren continued as if he'd received an enthusiastic response. "Not to worry, I won't keep you all in suspense for too long." There was a note of irony in his tone, borne of self-awareness no doubt. "In my humble opinion, the lively Miss Cleo requires a tutor. And what have we here, but a diligent student with an apparent knack for instruction?"

Cleo's head snapped in Ren's direction, a sharp " _What?_ " escaping her; it only took her seconds to notice the distinct deeper undertone, as Potter had blurted out the same sentiment as well.

"Uh-!" Potter looked to be casting about for something to say, though his alarm was apparent. "I mean, I don't really think I'm the best choice-"

"Nonsense!" Ren exclaimed, before he let out a short laugh. "My, _my,_ I sound like my _mother-_ "

Potter pressed forward through the aside. "I've just finished telling the Professor that my schedule isn't really suitable for more extracurriculars-"

"It's an _imposition,_ " Cleo argued, flustered. "I'm not comfortable demanding time out of some kid's schedule for my own benefit-"

Harry grimaced. "'Some kid?' I'm _right here,_ you know."

"Cleo, Harry, let me be clear," Ren said, placing a calming hand in each of their directions. "It wouldn't be permanent. Even if all you did was meet once a week, I think you both could benefit."

"But-"

He addressed Cleo squarely, then. "Honestly? Without tutoring, you're going to have a bad time. This course hit the ground running from day one, and now you've got to catch up. But there's no reason you couldn't be at the same level as the rest of the class by Christmas if you had extra help."

"I _told_ you," she stressed, "I'm not comfortable imposing on anyone."

With that, he rounded on Potter. "Might you be able to spare an hour or two?"

"Don't _pressure_ him," Cleo warned, her arms crossing taut over her chest.

Potter frowned, looking between the two before casting his eyes to the professor as if to appeal for help. "I... don't know," he ventured, uncomfortable.

"It's fine, Potter," Cleo assured him, clearly on edge. "I'm not your responsibility."

Ren's next remark was a touch thespian. "It would be such a _shame_ to abandon your classmate in her hour of _need-_ "

"It's..." Potter's deliberation lasted a mere moment. "Alright, _fine,_ I'll do it-"

" _No_."

Cleo's interjection went unnoticed. Ren clapped his hands together once more, as if to put an end to the matter. "We're in agreement, then," he concluded, a lilt in his voice. "All we need is the approval of the Chief Witch of the Wizengamot over here."

Professor Tenenbaum, who had taken a reclined position in her wheelchair, leaned forward only to smirk, as her hand went to scratch the rough stump that made up her left leg. "It's up to Harry," she commented, blithe. "Though, I would hope that it- ah, ignites some spark of passion he once retained for tutoring."

The boy grimaced briefly, his gaze falling by the wayside. "Right."

"Potter."

His eyes met Cleo's. _Finally._ "What?"

She stopped, watching him; there was nothing in his expression that gave him away, nor any indication of how he felt. With a frown, she glanced up toward the sky above her and sighed. "I'll be in the library this afternoon," she told him. "If you _actually_ want to do this, you can declare your intentions then and there. After you've actually _thought_ about it. Sound fair?"

The boy shuffled his feet, but held her stare. "Sure," was his neutral reply, carried on the back of a shrug.

Her gaze drifted to Professor Tenenbaum then, her frame still wound tight. "We should start on the wards," she indicated, trying not to sound gloomy. "It's a wonder your little creature has remained in the tree for this long."

••••••••••

Charms had droned on for far longer than she preferred, and the greater portion of it was spent avoiding Potter. She didn't know what Ren was thinking, requesting such a thing - on her behalf, no less. How could Potter say no under that kind of duress? She didn't need tutoring, anyway. Perhaps it would've been _helpful,_ but... She could manage on her own.

There was no better place to start on that, really, than in the library. Her steps were heavy; Cal's letter was still burning a hole in her pocket. Maybe if it actually _did,_ she mused, she'd never have to read it.

There wasn't any use dwelling on it. It was just going to make the entire day more unbearable.

Hogwarts's library was perhaps one of the more sizable ones she'd ever encountered, which was a feat in and of itself. Her father was a veritable connoisseur of libraries; there wasn't one within a hundred kilometers of her hometown that he hadn't been to. From the time she was young, a weekly visit had become a regular part of their routine, along with bedtime storytelling. Of course, her nightly tales didn't always include princesses and talking animals; her father had frequently dazzled her with tales of science and medicine - a way to incentivize himself to study when he'd ended up specializing in midwifery, she'd discovered much later.

Even if most of what he'd said was a mystery to her, it was the soothing baritone of his voice that she'd enjoyed most of all. Her eyes began to close, attempting to remember the sound...

 _No._

Why did she continue to reminisce like this when all it did was make her more and more homesick?

School. Focus on _school_.

As she navigated her way through, she noticed the Defense section of the library was noticeably more sparse than the rest; it seemed likely that a great deal of it had been gouged out and placed in the Restricted Section. Most of what remained were textbooks for lower years, encyclopedias, a few complex books of theory, and historical texts about famous dark creatures and those who discovered them - including, inexplicably, a few books by Gilderoy Lockhart. Cleo took hold of several tomes, stacking them up in her arms. Many of the "historical" ones had the look of narratives, but it couldn't hurt to check; after all, Ren had made it quite clear that she was failing Defense. If there was anything that could help her here, she would take it.

By the time she'd made it to a table, Cleo had gathered a sizable heap. Initially endeavoring to carry it all herself, she'd ended up settling for making them float along behind her when they'd threatened to topple more than once.

She was careful to settle them noiselessly, lest she disturb the others seated and studying, but an abrupt, scornful laugh clanged from her left, followed by the scraping of a chair. "Ah- girls, it's _well_ past time to go."

Cleo glanced up at the sudden sound, regretting it immediately. A band of five Slytherin girls were clustered by a neighboring table. One of them was staring directly at her - the one who had spoken. Striking blue eyes, auburn hair bound into a loose ponytail atop her head, and strikingly lavish accoutrements completed her affluent presentation. She was possessed of an acutely dignified bearing the other girls lacked, with a calculating glare to match. The girl stood, the movement so poised and elegant that she could be mistaken for royalty. Her followers mirrored her action a mere few seconds later, like afterimages.

A wispy girl standing beside her prodded her arm. "Aw, Ann! Do we have to? Flora was just getting to the good part!"

"Yes, we do," the first girl, Ann presumably, countered with a significant glance at Cleo. "I don't care much for the air in here anymore." Four pairs of eyes turned against her.

"Oh," one of the others sighed. This girl was familiar: Jane Atwater. From her Herbology class. They locked eyes, only broken when Jane glanced away, turning her back.

" _Right_ then," Ann scoffed, "we're off."

With a haughty toss of her ponytail, she left, her posse trailing behind her. Cleo caught Jane dawdling for a moment, the girl's lips flashing an apologetic frown in her direction before bursting into a trot to catch up with her friends.

Sighing, Cleo turned her gaze back to her books. It didn't matter. It didn't fucking matter. _Focus_.

In the end, this was easier said than done. Her attention drifted in between dry sentence after dry sentence... As it turned out, Professor Tenenbaum had trapped what was called a _Leshy_ to be used for the next day's lesson. And from what she gleaned from the anthology, they were slavic magical creatures. Guardians of the forest. Not necessarily malevolent in and of themselves, but dangerous still, if caught in a bad enough mood. They were known for things like kidnapping children, luring travelers astray, blah... _blah_...

Studying had never been this difficult before. The words intertwined with one another; her own thoughts lanced amidst the sentences she read, disrupting. By the time she'd attempted to read the same sentence for the fifth time and yet _still_ hadn't retained what it said, she knew this entire thing was a wash. The book held her as she dipped forward, pressing her forehead against its spine.

Giving up wasn't really an option, as alluring as the prospect seemed. This was supposed to be productive. She didn't want to sulk.

Her robes felt uncomfortable, lopsided, favoring her left pocket. It didn't matter how many times she adjusted herself - this same agitation would rear its ugly head once again, careening its way to the forefront of her mind. The letter. It wanted to be read. She fucking knew that. But she _couldn't_ right now.

A jolt of heat and pressure surged through her spine and, with a scowl, she slammed her book shut. The sound bloomed out from the epicenter of where she sat and she noticed, much to her chagrin, a few heads were raised to look at her. She offered a meek, contrite smile in supplication, and watched as each face dropped back into study.

Cleo's eyes slammed shut and she grit her teeth.

 _Control yourself_.

Her arm reached to grab and pull another book from the pile, not caring to know what it was. She cracked the spine open against her lap and forced herself to begin reading again. _An Assorted History On Dueling._

A numbness took hold of her and she struggled through the first few pages of the text for what felt like forever until she noticed something beside her: Fingers taking hold of one of the books on her table, just barely in her line of sight. Reflexively, she shot out a hand in a quick, deterring motion.

"Sorry, I'm using that-" She stopped short, arm cancelling its path, and her breath caught roughly in her throat.

Professor Snape stood beside the table, his expression neutral aside from a single quirked eyebrow. "Using that term rather _loosely,_ aren't you, Miss Croft?"

"Not really," she returned, a touch defensive.

The man didn't immediately reply, simply glancing about the table in front of her with a considering air before returning his gaze to her. "You haven't turned a page in at least ten minutes."

She stared at him, bewildered. "Have you been watching me for ten minutes?"

"If by 'watching' you mean 'noticing your haphazard arrangement of books due to the fact that you are currently holding one that I require hostage', then yes."

"Hostage," she repeated, deadpan.

"Indeed," was his equally unenthused rejoinder. "Seeing as you are not strictly _using_ it at present."

"I was going to get into it after this chapter," she protested.

"You have particular interest in limnal boundaries and ward foundations?"

"I have a particular interest in doing an essay on them for extra credit," she told him.

He squinted at her, his expression odd in such a way that Cleo suspected that the phrase "extra credit" was either repulsive or utterly unfamiliar to him. The professor commented, "For someone so apparently struggling with Defense concepts, you seem quite keen to jump ahead of your curriculum."

"As I remember, _you_ suggested I do so."

"I must confess to some lingering skepticism regarding your compliance."

She frowned. "I've taken your advice plenty of times."

Both eyebrows rose at that pronouncement. "You don't say," he intoned.

It was difficult to not take his bait. But being antagonistic wouldn't help matters, not where he was concerned, at least. She frowned at him before looking back down at the book in front of her. "When you're right, you're right."

The man shifted in her periphery. "I expect Professor Tenenbaum has already contacted you to schedule your detentions?" he changed the subject.

"This morning," she replied.

"And I expect I will never have to hear from her again." There was a clear warning in his tone.

Her reaction was stark: She turned toward him in earnest, gaze catching his.. "You won't."

His attention held fast, but only for the span of a moment before it fell away toward her array of texts on the table. "We shall see," he remarked, doubtful.

"You won't," she mumbled again, returning to her text. "She's all excited, anyway, now that Potter's been guilted into possibly tutoring me."

There was no reply, though the man remained in place.

In that expanse of silence, she could feel the weightiness of his gaze boring into her. Expectant. It took her a second, but, with a sigh, she grasped the book beside her before holding it in his direction, her eyes still focused on the open chapter waiting in her lap. "Here."

There was a short pause before her arm was unburdened. Professor Snape performed a quick flourish, twisting the book beneath his arm. In the corner of her eye, she could see it resting at his side. Then, his voice drifted down to her, sardonic, "Five points to Slytherin."

Her head snapped in his direction, gobsmacked. It didn't take long for the shock to radiate into a pleasant sense of humor, but she was careful not to laugh. Her lips twisted into a smile before she took the chance to joke: "Need any other books?"

It was possible she'd imagined it, but his expression seemed to twitch, a momentary uptick in the muscles of his face. Then, within the space of a blink, it was gone. "Not today."

"Fair enough."

It would have ended there. It probably _should_ have ended there. But the levity in the conversation, imagined or not, bolstered her to some degree.

She hesitated, albeit briefly, before turning toward him in her chair. "Professor Snape?"

A raised eyebrow and a toneless hum signaled his attention.

"About my proposal-"

"Not _now,_ Miss Croft," he cut her off. The stern words struck a harsh contrast against his prior tone.

"Not _now?_ " she repeated, pushing her luck further. "So that means there will be a later?"

He slanted her a disapproving look. "I have yet to be sufficiently convinced that it is worth my time."

That statement stung more than it ought have. "I wouldn't bother you if it wasn't-"

"I have business of actual import to attend to," the professor interrupted her, already pivoting away. "Good afternoon, Miss Croft."

"But-"

By the time that pathetic word limped its way out of her mouth, he was halfway across the library.

She waited for almost an hour before Potter arrived. It was hard to say if she was apprehensive or relieved to spot his head of unruly hair amongst the bookshelves.

He checked out a book, glancing over his shoulder as if he was establishing an alibi to be there in the library with her. She put her gaze on the book in her lap as he turned in her direction.

The kid didn't wait around. His trajectory to her table was direct - as was his greeting. "Hey."

She didn't look up. "Hey."

Potter radiated a sort of manic energy; the boy couldn't keep still. His index finger tapped relentlessly atop the book in his hands, but she could feel his intent gaze on the side of her face.

Clearly growing impatient with the quiet, he addressed her with whiplike intensity. "So. Here we are."

 _That_ , of all things, made her look up at him. He appeared... something. She couldn't quite place it. However, there was an odd _determination_ to him. "I'd say that's accurate, yes."

Potter pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table, plopping himself down and staring at her. "Okay- No need to pretend to be polite, now that there's no teachers around."

"What?" she bumbled, eyes trained in a squint.

He pursed his lips. "You wanted to meet here, didn't you?"

"So you could tell me whether or not you wanted to actually tutor me," she reiterated. "Are you here to tell me no, then?"

Potter's frown was pronounced. "What, you're saying you actually _want_ to be tutored by me?" he questioned, disbelieving.

"I only want you to tutor me if it's something you want to do," she clarified, uneasy. "If you don't, you're free to just tell me no."

"You do actually know who I am, right?"

"I'd say it's very difficult to not know who you are."

"Right," was his flat response. "I don't know what your angle is, but I'll agree to tutor you if you answer some questions."

"Okay...?" she agreed, leaning back into her chair.

"Tell me what you know about what Malfoy's up to."

"Why in the world would I know what Malfoy is up to?" she asked, incredulous.

The impatient tapping of his finger resurged, this time thumping at the wooden edge of his armrest. "You're in his House, aren't you?"

"I'm in his House, thus I know everything about him?" she challenged.

" _No,_ " Potter shot back. "But I saw him talking to you yesterday. I want to know why."

"Why do you think?" she snapped, growing irritated. "He throws his weight around. It's all he does now."

"He's already done more than that," he countered. "And I don't intend to let him continue."

"You alone, huh?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You see anyone else doing anything about this?"

Maybe she was letting her anger get the best of her now, but she couldn't help the irate remark that shoved itself from her: "No, Potter, you're literally the _only_ person in this entire school who has the foresight and moxie to stand up to a little prick like Malfoy."

" _Obviously_ I am, since he's still swanning off, doing whatever the hell he wants," Potter said, his dark eyebrows drawn low over his eyes.

"Obviously you are," she repeated, livid, as she went to lay her book back onto the table.

"I don't really care what you think about it," he told her, matter-of-fact. "I've witnessed one too many of Malfoy's dark-corner-meetings to just let it go."

With a furrowed brow, she leaned forward. "Ah, I see. Two Slytherins being in proximity to each other is grounds for conspiracy, huh?"

"Yeah, it is. Especially when he's targeting Muggleborns," Potter shot back. "A fact _you_ don't seem to care about."

Was he _serious?_

"No, wouldn't be of any interest to me at all," she seethed, acerbic.

"Right," was his clipped retort. "So you're not going to answer my questions, then."

"I'm not being obtuse, Potter," she barked. "There's just nothing to say. If you think Malfoy and I are chatting it up in dark corners of the dungeon, then you don't know much about me at all."

For a moment, he just stared at her. Then, a frustrated sigh escaped him. "How is it that Malfoy is such a public arsehole, but _nobody_ knows anything about what he's doing?"

"I imagine asking the wrong people doesn't really help."

Potter scowled at her. "I don't need a lecture from the same girl who decided to kiss up to Snape at my expense," he sneered. "Which is _exactly_ what Malfoy would do, I might add."

" _That's_ the conclusion you drew?"

"I don't know what I was expecting, really," Potter remarked, caustic.

"I'm sorry-" she gasped, exasperated, practically throwing herself back in her seat. "Did I do something to piss you off? I don't understand where this hostility is coming from."

The boy stared at her as if she were insane. "You've been suspended from school, you're having secret meetings with Malfoy, you berated a _teacher-_ And you and Snape are right _chummy,_ aren't you? " he accused her, point-blank.

"You sure like to pretend you know more than you actually do," she observed, scowling.

"I know enough," Potter spat.

Engaging like this wasn't worth it, was it?

"Okay, Potter," she exhaled, using her arms against the table to rig herself into a stand. "Since you find me so revolting to be around, I won't make you waste your time further, then."

He watched her snatch her bag from the table, picking up his own book like it was a shield.

Cleo left most of the texts she had amassed, opting to just walk out of the situation. What else could she do? The air around her felt too oppressive for her to remain a second longer. It was too much - all of it.

She needed to go somewhere. Anywhere. Before this got worse.

••••••••••

There were few places within the confines of the castle where Cleo felt truly safe, but there was one spot, above all others, she returned to time and time again. She'd stumbled upon it in a panic her first year, after getting lost in the chaotic mess of Hogwarts's stairwells. That one room in the castle felt familiar in a way no one had ever understood. She didn't need them to, either. She just knew that when everything hurt, when everything became too much, whenever her desire to be _home_ had reached its most difficult to bear - she came here. Unfailing.

The Divination classroom was empty aside from the smoky haze which regularly swirled about the space. The air smelled strongly of vanilla and patchouli - unmistakable even before she'd ascended the ladder - and every lamp was draped in gauzy fabrics of blue and green, imbuing the space with a distinctly underwater feel. As Cleo passed the rows of columns beside the dias where the professor's armchair sat empty, she noticed that the curtains were drawn on the towering windows all around the octagonal classroom.

She stopped short of the crystal ball seated primly on the table at the front of the classroom, eyes planing around the curve of the glass. It was probably well enough that no one was here.

Her knees gave up on her and she plopped down with a harsh _smack_ on the stair step. Maybe a chair would have been nicer. Appropriate. But what the fuck did appropriate matter? What did nicer matter? Her entire body coalesced into an agonizing pressure that gave way to a throb. It was embarrassing, really, how hard her distress attempted to diffuse itself from her. It was a tension behind her eyelids trying to force its way outward. It was a strain in her throat attempting to spill between her lips. It was a strength in her midsection trying to compress her insides into what felt like a singularity. Her fingers clenched at the edge of the step. Her nose scrunched as her lips squeezed and tried to escape into her mouth - anything to keep that little yelp that nestled itself at the back of her throat from having the pleasure of peeking out.

She wasn't going to cry.

She wasn't going to _fucking_ cry.

What did Potter know? What did Snape know? What did Tenenbaum know? What did any of them know?

They were all with her there, hovering and onerous. She suddenly felt all too aware of her pocket.

She wasn't angry but she didn't want to cry. Her mind and body couldn't agree. The body needed action and the mind made a staunch refusal. It left her in a cold and painful impasse, staring at the crystal ball as if it had any answers.

Her mind appeared to have come to a compromise that she wasn't consciously aware of - or maybe her muscles worked on impulse and memory alone. With no apparent avenue to channel her hurt, her hand wrenched the unwieldy letter from her pocket. Her fingers clasped the edges and the parchment let out a soft yelp as the first bit of it was torn.

Each scrap of paper fluttered to the ground and she waded in them as they pooled like blood around her ankles, bled from the victim she tore apart, piecemeal. It was disgusting, how utterly satisfying it felt. And when the corpse was nothing but a heap of mess that laid about her, broken, she wrapped her arms around her legs and choked on her breath.

Off to her left, a thick curtain of beads stirred, bringing with it a flurry of wooden clacks as hundreds of them bounced off each other. Professor Trelawney herself emerged into the room with all the buoyant energy of a leaf on the wind. Clad in a myriad of sashes and shawls, her attire seemed incomplete due to her lack of jewelry and her limp, pulled-back hair. The woman's gaze alighted on Cleo, brightening with recognition before widening with confusion.

"Oh," she gasped, her voice infused with curiosity. "I wasn't expecting anyone this late."

It was stupid. It really, really was.

Because that's what this entire thing was, wasn't it? A farce. Dramaturgy. Theatrics. Her barging in, unannounced, on the verge of what felt like the billionth crisis that week, and having the _nerve_ , the utter _nerve,_ to look at that woman and feel as if she were at home.

And even _that_ had the gall to hurt.

The tears, bloated and teetering at the corners of her eyes, were a direct defiance to the amount of ugly contortions her face did to keep them from plummeting. But there they were. There they were. Ridiculous. Absolutely bloody ridiculous.

There were so many things she wanted, too. So many things that were too bloody childish to reflect upon, much less list. She felt so guilty about the response and the shameful display she'd created that she immediately swiped the butt of her palm across her eyes, uttering a soft, "I'm so sorry, Professor."

"Dear girl," the woman uttered, grasping her shawls as her willowy form bent toward Cleo. "Whatever is there to be sorry for?"

Everything. Being a disappointment and failure. Being unhinged. Wanting to give up. Not being as tough as she needed to be. Being utterly selfish and self involved. Fucking forcing her emotional bullshit on someone who didn't even ask for it.

Cleo blinked, her tears coming out in a crawl down her cheeks, as she replied, breathless, "I don't know."

Professor Trelawney approached with purposeful vigor, though her touch was overwhelmingly gentle as she cupped Cleo's face in her hands.

Cleo's eyes closed and she leaned into Trelawney's palms. They were soft and lukewarm, the edges of her fingers hinging on the very back of her jaw. For a moment, she thought she could smell her mother's juniper perfume and that, in a moment, she'd feel a forehead pressed against her own, as her mother had done a million times before when she caught Cleo crying.

But there was nothing. Just a moment of consideration and thought, before the air was displaced with the force of Trelawney's nod. "Wait here; I have just the thing!"

The loss of touch was jilting. So much so that she almost wanted to beg Trelawney to come back. Her eyes fluttered open and she watched as the woman's form retreated through the beaded curtain once more before emerging with a gleaming silver kettle in hand. Placing it atop the table by her armchair, she returned to Cleo, ushering her to stand with fluttering hands. "Come, now. I haven't got a fire, but you ought to sit somewhere more comfortable, hm?"

Maybe it was pathetic, but she waited until Trelawney's hands gripped her upper arms to hoist herself into a stand, a few scraps of paper still clinging to her feet, accusing, and only barely managed to amble into the armchair the woman guided her to before being plopped down and abandoned again.

Abandoned.

The woman was only a foot away and she felt _abandoned_.

Jesus Christ.

Trelawney pulled a small box of matches from underneath one of her scarves, making several abortive tries at lighting one of them. When she finally managed it, she lit a small, raised burner directly beneath the kettle, the same that was used for potion making. Even so, it appeared that the water was already heated; she'd likely been preparing for an evening brew before Cleo had arrived.

Fetching a pair of teacups from nearby, Trelawney offered them up for Cleo's consideration. "Which do you prefer?" was her earnest inquiry, spoken as if her choice was of great import.

They were both terrible and chintzy, which somehow _also_ managed to be nostalgic. She sniffed, hard, before pointing to the one covered in violets.

It was placed in her hands with gravitas before the woman shifted her weight toward the tea kettle once more. "A nice cuppa ought to restore you, I should think," Trelawney stated, placing a handful of tea leaves into the container with all the theatrical flourish of a Muggle magician.

Cleo's fingernails drummed against the porcelain outside of her cup as she watched the tendrils of steam climb from the neck of the kettle.

"It was rude of me to blunder in like this," she uttered, miserable.

The professor held up a forestalling hand. "Not at all, my dear. I should have been prepared for this, actually; my horoscope did mention that I would be visited by someone important to me."

"Important to you?" she questioned, bracingly.

"You know, they say that the most significant aspect of divining the transmundane is how well you are paying attention," the woman sighed. She pulled over a chair to sit beside Cleo, patting her on the arm. "How easy it is, to cloud the senses! It was quite careless of me."

"I don't understand," Cleo admitted, bleary eyes drifting toward Trelawney.

"You look a mite peckish, dear," the woman fretted, her eyes refocusing on Cleo. "I've some fairy cakes that would go well with your tea."

There came another pitiful showing of emotion; the doting seemed incidental, but every detail clung to her like a reminder. Her tears were fresh again and she nodded, her words oozing out of her, syrupy and feeble. "I'd like that."

"Lovely! Let me get those for you..."

The woman left once more in a whirl of scarves. When she returned, she carried a plate with her, saying, "You must be wondering why I'm not simply using magic. The truth is, I've been a victim of quite a few omens lately - I nearly fainted straight away and cancelled my afternoon classes when I spotted four crows perched at my windowsill a week past!"

"What does that foretell?"

She grasped a fairy cake that she didn't feel all that inclined to eat - the attention was the satiating portion she'd been after - and watched Trelawney with careful, curious eyes. Whether or not she believed in such things was immaterial - it hadn't ever been like that with her mother. She just liked listening. She liked how her mother would explain her tarot readings at length, or some vision she'd stumbled upon after meditation. It was comforting in a way that Cleo couldn't explain, and hearing Trelawney elucidate in the same manner abated the homesickness, even if it was only a little.

"Four is a very unlucky number, you see," Trelawney explained, a visible shiver going through her. "Normally, four crows are a portent of wealth, but I had just finished making a pot of tea, just like this one, and wouldn't you know it -" She dropped her voice to a grave whisper. " _I accidentally left the lid off!_ "

Cleo's nod was a slow, confused dip. "I see."

"That night, I began having a very strange dream."

"Did you?"

"I was standing in a field of tall grass, just near the entrance to a forest, and it was terribly, _terribly_ dark," the woman told her. "And I stood in the same spot for hours without even a drop of moonlight to comfort me when- the dream simply ended! Nice as you please! I woke in a cold sweat, as dark forests in dreams are dreadful omens, you understand."

Oddly, she did. That was one of the few useless bits of information you hung on to after... lord, three years of Divination?

Truth be told, there wasn't a lot that _couldn't_ be construed to be a bad omen. "I'm sure you've gone about making precautions," Cleo prompted, mellow.

"Well of course," Trelawney assured her. "I've a horseshoe just over my bed to ward off any evil spirits. And, as I've been sniffling for days I fear some illness has come for me, so I've been carrying acorns in my pocket and hiding them about the classroom..."

"Then I'm sure you'll be safe, Professor."

The woman patted her hand. "That's quite nice of you to say... Oh! The tea must be done by now, I should think."

Picking up the tea kettle, she gestured that Cleo should present her cup first. Hot steam warmed Cleo's palms as the smell of bergamot surrounded her, the tea leaves swirling loose in her cup.

She wasn't all that up to drinking. Though, if she knew anything about Trelawney, the tea wasn't just meant to be tea. She was careful on the first sip, grimacing slightly as a bit of tea leaf caught itself on her front tooth. She massaged her tongue over it, eyes focused on the table as she uttered a soft, slightly garbled: "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," she replied, pouring her own portion as well. "This is my favorite - Lady Grey. I figure you and I should be safer from whatever illness is lurking nearby."

"What makes you think it's an illness?"

For a moment, the woman simply stared into the middle distance, as if her train of thought had been derailed. "Oh... Do you not remember? Dark forests - omens of neglect. Perhaps I haven't been eating enough radishes..."

These were the instances that weren't so nostalgic - Trelawney, for all the parts of her that were endearing and worth admiring, had an absolute talent for talking over everyone in the room. A soft hum rumbled in Cleo's chest in response, as she took another swig of her tea.

Trelawney's porcelain teacup clinked against the saucer as she placed hers down. "So," the woman lilted, a clear lead-in to another topic. "I sense you are quite troubled by something."

Cleo's eyes snapped to the horrible mess she'd abandoned on the steps of the dias, and with a pained grimace, she leaned forward and covered her face. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"Nothing to worry about, my dear," Trelawney assured her, adjusting her shawl to sit more comfortably. "Although, I don't think it quite harmonizes the space."

The levity was wasted on her, embarrassed as she was. "I shouldn't have done it."

"Well - it's only a bit of parchment," Trelawney commented. "No harm done."

"It was a letter, actually," she confessed.

This earned her a confused blink from the woman. "A letter? From whom?"

"Do you remember Cal?"

"Your friend? I remember you inviting him up here for lunch a few times."

It was certainly something _he_ never really appreciated, regardless of how kind he'd been about it. How easily a nice memory could sour, when confronted with a pattern of her self-centeredness. She grit her teeth briefly before nodding. "Yeah. It was from him."

Trelawney grimaced sympathetically. "Bad news, then?"

"Probably," she exhaled, her hands going to grasp her legs tightly. "He hates me now, I think."

There was a shrewd, expectant attention to her gaze. "Probably?" she questioned.

Having her uncertainty shoved in her face like that made her avoidance seem all the more childish, but she insisted: "There's no other reason to write me."

"Have you not read it?"

"I read enough of it."

"How much?"

"Enough to know how much of an absolute arsehole I am," she sniped, defensive, before flinching away. "Sorry. Shit-" Her eyes slammed shut and she bit down on her lip, hard. "I mean- sorry. _Sorry_. I didn't mean to-"

She cut off, mortified. Trelawney hardly seemed to notice her gaffe. "I had no idea this boy was so vicious," she murmured, a hand to her chest.

"He's not!" she objected, feeling her cheeks heat. Great. She'd somehow made him the villain, when he'd done _nothing_ wrong. "He's always been so kind."

"Oh - but you said..."

"If he wrote to me angrily, he would be fully justified," she said, leaning forward to grasp her fairy cake again, before nervously stuffing a large bite into her mouth.

"If there were no bitter words between you, why didn't you read the rest?" the professor inquired, remembering her own cup of tea.

"Because I know what it's going to say."

"You do?!" the woman gasped, earnest. "Has your Inner Eye finally revealed itself to you?"

"No, it's not like that," Cleo stammered, running out of steam.

"Then how could you know?"

Her eyes rolled upward as a bitter laugh expelled from her. "Because I completely blanked him out for two years. I left school, promising that I'd keep in contact, but I didn't. I shut everyone out. It's tantamount to saying I don't care. Who wouldn't be mad? And like, what can I say? I can't explain myself. I deserve it. I keep acting in this way and it just-"

She cut herself short, falling back in her chair. Trelawney frowned.

"It seems likely," she began, her voice oddly sober, "that if your friend hasn't heard from you in two years, and he truly hated you as you say, it would make more sense for him to never send you a letter at all."

Maybe so. But it didn't help that she saw the opposite just as likely to happen. "It doesn't matter," she concluded, folding her hands into her lap. "The point's moot."

"Why not read it?" the professor asked.

She simply stared at Trelawney, gaze carrying the brunt of her exhaustion.

"Well." The woman petted a shawl on her arm as if it were a cat. "If _you_ don't want to read it, then _I_ do."

Trelawney rose from her seat, promptly walking over to the scattered pieces of parchment that lay on the floor. Carefully, she gathered all of them, bringing them back to where Cleo sat. Taking up her wand, she resumed her seat before halting herself abruptly, her eyes going wide. Turning to Cleo, she uttered the simple plea, "Er... Repair them for me?"

"I'm not any better at reconstitution spells," Cleo pointed out, albeit a bit petulant.

With a frown, the woman stared at the bits of letter in her hand. Her expression was worried, fearful, as she turned her gaze back to Cleo.

Cleo's head dipped. Right. The omens. _Fuck._ She was such a jerk.

With a shake of her head, she leaned forward, collecting the pieces of paper and setting them in a small pile on the table. "Nevermind, I'll try," she promised, before reaching into her robes to retrieve her wand. She dragged the tip of it in a lazy circle around the pile, uttering a soft: " _Recolligo._ "

It took a second, but the paper pieces began to shift, organizing themselves back into the shape of a letter. Cleo was careful to keep her eyes adrift from the sentences, lest she catch another word that could set her heart going. She scowled and tapped the edge of the parchment. " _Reparo._ "

The tears stitched themselves together before the letter sat there, intact, as if it hadn't been assaulted at all. Haphazard, Cleo fell back into her seat, turning her head to stare at the rows of cushions climbing toward the entrance of the room

"Thank you," the professor said, voice softer now that the threat to her had receded. She took up the letter and began to read.

The next minute dragged by like a wounded man on the front line. Hyperbole again. But it felt agonizing, her mind sifting through a collection of reactions the professor could possibly have, all ranging from horrible to catastrophic. She didn't want to look it, but she felt herself edging deeper into her seat, frightened, just absolutely _dreading_ the moment that Trelawney would speak and elucidate at length the depths to which her former best friend hated her.

When Trelawney was finished, she placed the offending document down in her lap, peering at Cleo curiously. "Three and a half years in my class, and your Divination skills don't seem to have improved at all!" she lamented with a sigh.

"What?"

She gestured pointedly to the parchment. "There is nothing at all angry or hateful about this letter."

She hadn't envisioned this eventuality, so she had no response, other than to stare at Trelawney, frowning. The professor went on: "I think this is a perfectly safe read, my dear." She performed a grand gesture at herself. "And that's coming from someone who knows an omen when she sees one."

Cleo's next movements were fluid: Bent at the waist, she grasped the letter as Trelawney proffered it to her, and took in a breath.

 _To the lovely Miss Cleo_ , she read again. It still felt biting. But she continued to the next scathing portion of the letter: _Oi! I haven't heard from you in a while. You said you'd write, and I'll have you know I am properly offended that I have to get off my arse and send this first._

Muscle memory had her wanting to toss the thing away again, but when she glanced up, Trelawney's eyes caught hers. Not a word passed between them, but the woman prompted her with a nod, and Cleo swallowed before looking down to finish the rest.

 _For shame!_ _But seriously, I hope you're doing alright in Muggle land. You live in Brighton, yeah? If this letter reaches you, I'll know my experiment of not putting your address on the envelope was a success. Here's hoping. I've got 10 galleons resting on it._ _I'm all graduated now. Which is sort of rubbish, honestly; I'm cleaning dung out of bank vaults. It's disgusting. Trust me, you leave school, and it's all downhill, so count yourself lucky. My life is all very "stereotypical medieval drama underdog" right now. I miss you filling me in on all the silly television things. Sadly, Mum is still very against electricity._ _Anyway, I know you're busy, but you're welcome to visit. Bring your whole family if you like. Although, I'd be careful, since my aunts will probably drown everyone in tea. They're like that about visitors. Considering there are people of the Muggle persuasion in your family tree, they will also have no end of deeply uncomfortable questions to ask about your "exotic" lifestyle. Look forward to that!_ _Personally, I've never met any Muggles, and therefore my reaction is, as yet, untested. So... Will you at least do it for science? Oh, by the way, I've been learning about science. Mum hates technology, but she loves books, so she got me some big fancy Muggle ones. Not actual books about real science, but... children's books I think? With great big cutesy pictures all over? They don't move, I might add, but I think that's for the best. There's one called "Do It For Science". I also learned about tuberculosis and recycling. Not at the same time. You know what I mean._ _Well, I'm running out of parchment. You know what that means? You should come see me face to face, so I can ramble at you in person._ _Or, you know. At least send me your address. For science._ _Much love, Cal_

Her entire body shivered heavily on an exhale, a hand going to cover her mouth. She had no compunctions about sobbing openly this time. Trelawney rested a hand on her shoulder, a warm, stable weight.

Cleo looked up at her, a sob hiccoughing through her, before she announced with a shaky laugh: "I'm such an idiot."

"No, you aren't," the woman gently chided her.

"I worked myself up like this," she bemoaned, letting out another sob, "for what? This? I'm so... _dramatic,_ god-"

Trelawney waved a hand through the air, as if she were dispersing the thought. "It's nothing that can't be fixed, dear," she insisted, beginning to rub Cleo's back soothingly.

It was hard to feel comforted when faced with the reality that she'd nearly left this letter - this sweet, heartfelt indicator that her old friend was _reaching out_ \- in a crumpled, torn heap on the floor of the Divination classroom. She sagged under the weight of the day, all her inadequacies piled up around her; now that she had fully gotten started, her tears streamed endlessly on.

Her professor acted as a lean-to that Cleo bore her whole weight against. Shamelessly, she turned her head and buried her face into the woman's hip.

A single world weaseled its way out, in between her cries and the shawls. "Professor."

"Hm?"

The woman's fingers dragged the full load of her head upward, the delicate curve of her palm cradling her damp cheek. She forced Cleo to look head on at her and, in that blur, Cleo let out a bitter laugh.

"I'm going crazy," she whimpered, her fingers reaching to grasp the woman's wrist, as if the very presence of it anchored her there. "I don't think I can do this."

"Whatever do you mean?"

Her head shook and the room itself felt as if it were beginning to buckle beneath her, burdened by the tremendous weight of her grief.

"I can't stay."


	5. Aching

After a fire, hard work, and holidays, so arrives chapter five. We hope you enjoy it. Thank you as ever to our beta, Henry. We appreciate your enthusiasm and your utter willingness to be there, beck and call. We love you.

For chapter images and faster updates, check us out on AO3!

Coming Soon - Chapter 6: Little One

••••••••••

The morning Dumbledore's second summons arrived, Harry was _livid_.

Spotting Ron's bright red head above the corridor's usual between-class crowd, he grabbed hold of the boy's sleeve and yanked him into an alcove.

The sudden confrontation sent Ron reeling, his wand halfway out his pocket before his eyes alighted with recognition. "Merlin," he exhaled, roughly shoving his wand back into his robes. "Warn a bloke before you do something like that, won't you? 'Bout gave me a ruddy heart attack-"

" _Sorry,_ sorry," came Harry's hasty interruption, releasing his friend's arm with conciliatory delicacy. "I'm just-" He broke off with a violent exhalation, fists clenched at his sides. "I was _this bloody close_ to breaking Snape's _stupid bloody nose_ -"

"Oh ho, _really?!_ I'm almost sorry I wasn't there to witness," Ron observed, wry, his arms crossing over his chest. "What'd the git get up to this time?"

Harry's grimace was pained, and his eyes rolled skyward before refocusing on Ron. "Not here."

"Alright," Ron grumbled, his head tilting. "Common room, then?"

"No," he refused hastily. "Too er, crowded."

"Bit picky, aren't you?"

He threw a baleful glare in Ron's direction. "That's-!"

"Oi, oi, I'm just taking the mick! No need to give me that look!"

Harry frowned, muttering, "C'mon, Ron, this is serious."

"Alright, well, if you need to talk that bad... Suppose I could skip Care of Magical Creatures, if we can avoid Hermione..." Harry felt his stomach twist as his friend continued, oblivious. "I'm peckish, but I guess the Great Hall's out, in that case," he mused, before glancing, conspiratorial, over his shoulder. "Haven't been down to the kitchens in a while. Maybe you can convince the house elves to conjure you up some- what'd you say it was called?- oh, tacos."

Considering the situation, Harry didn't particularly care; he had no appetite at all. "Sure- fine. Let's just go," he urged.

Ron's eyebrows rose, but all he said was: "Lead the way."

When they arrived, the kitchen was filled to the brim with the high-pitched squeaks and murmurs from hundreds of house elves, all bustling about with platters of food that were larger than they were. Upon entering, they were nearly bowled over by three elves who were pushing a large cart, atop which were massive pots of steaming soup. In an instant, one of the elves appeared at their side.

"O-Oh," the little elf stuttered, wide eyes flickering between them both. "Zimsy is being sorry, but students a-aren't allowed in the kitchens-"

"Er..." Harry cast a look at Ron, then said: "We're only visiting."

Being forced to confront them further only appeared to make the house elf more distressed, as she cast her head about, ears flopping. "N-No. Zimsy isn't explaining properly to sirs. Zimsy is being most sorry. Students is not allowed in the kitchens under any circumstances, Headmaster says so."

"Harry Potter!" A familiar voice puttered, clumsy, through the din, and the elf that it belonged to bounced in their direction, a pile of multicolored hats teetering atop his head. "And Harry Potter's most admirable friend!"

Ron appeared slightly put off, but no more than Zimsy, who began clawing at her own ears, pulling them hard over the side of her face. "Not _you_ again!"

Dobby approached them with overflowing excitement. "Dobby is so happy to be visited by such honorable sirs!"

Harry offered the elf a small smile. "Good to see you, too."

"Dobby is not supposed to be being in here either!" Zimsy screeched, pulling her ears so hard that Harry feared she'd tear them off.

Dobby scowled at the other elf, his face scrunching up as he informed her, "Dobby is being on a break!"

"Break!" Zimsy gasped, as if the word disgusted her to her very core. "Zimsy is continuing to tell Dobby to not be practicing weird _rituals_ here!" She stomped her feet for good measure, looking as if she were about to burst. "And Dobby must be telling the sirs to leave!"

"The Headmaster is saying Dobby is doing anything Dobby is wishing on a break!"

The next thing that spilled out of Zimsy's mouth was a loud, horrendous scream, filling the expanse of the kitchen and causing some of the other house elves - and even Harry and Ron themselves - to cover their ears.

Dobby's tiny form puffed up and he spoke up over the cacophony. "Zimsy is being on a break too!" he accused.

In an instant, the screaming stopped. Zimsy trembled, her wide eyes somehow tearing themselves wider, as she stared at Dobby in horror. "W-What?"

"A break is stopping duties in the middle of the day!" the elf informed her.

Zimsy began to hyperventilate, her nails raking over her ears. "Oh no."

"If Zimsy is talking to sirs," Dobby reasoned, his pile of hats bobbing along with his head, "Zimsy is being on a break."

It took a moment of huffing and puffing until Zimsy burst into tears, panic awash in her limbs as she stomped and flailed. "Zimsy has to be punished!" she blubbered as she broke into a sprint toward one of the ovens at the far end of the kitchen. "Dobby is being a horrible influence! Zimsy was being on a break! Zimsy has to be punished!"

"Wait-!" Harry turned a beseeching look to Dobby. "Can you stop her...?"

"Of course! Dobby is doing anything for Harry Potter!" The elf had set off so quickly that he was halfway across the room by the time his sentence finished, putting his small body ahead of Zimsy to block her way.

Ron and Harry looked on as the two elves battled it out, one clawing at the oven door (no doubt in order to slam her fingers in or perform some other equally violent harm to herself) and the other with his arms wrapped around her shoulders, hats toppling off his head as he struggled to pin her arms. The other elves gave them a wide berth; Harry couldn't tell if it was because of the clothing strewn about or the vigorous nature of the fight.

Ron prodded his arm, and when Harry turned his way he inclined his head to a nearby counter that appeared to be human-sized. He didn't need to be told twice; they made their way carefully over, dodging all the elves on the way.

Harry let out a whoosh of air from his lungs as he settled himself on a stool. "Glad that's finally over with," he intoned to Ron.

"Right," the redhead muttered, leaning on one of the counters where a house elf was cutting open a pumpkin. "What's 'Mione see in these little monsters?"

"Er..." Harry cast a worried glance at the elf right next to them, though the creature appeared to take no notice of them. "Dobby's alright, though."

" _Sure_ he's alright, for a bloke who tried to murder you."

Harry's laugh was short. "Well, of everyone in that category, he's the most preferable company I suppose."

"'Better than bloody You-Know-Who' isn't saying much," he remarked, sarcastic.

"Well I meant-"

Ron waved a dismissive hand. "I know what you meant, mate. I am, after all," he attempted to imitate Dobby's affectionate soprano, " _Harry Potter's most admirable friend_."

Harry's amused smile ended up looking more like a grimace. He could tell just by the look of worry that Ron gave him. Still, he tried to respond with some semblance of humor. "Your house elf impersonation needs some work."

Ron didn't reply. A quiet descended on them so thick that even the noise in the spacious room seemed to dim ever so slightly.

His friend gazed out across the busy crowd of elves, leaning both elbows behind him on the counter. "So... what was this about Snape, then?"

"He's a huge prick, that's what," Harry murmured, subdued.

"Wow, what a revelation!" Ron feigned surprise.

On the back of a sigh, Harry explained, "The git had us brewing a memorized recipe today. A month ahead of when he said we would."

"Memorized...?"

"Yeah." He slumped, resting his chin in both hands atop the counter. "Part of some 'field training' tripe. Hermione was, er... pretty excited about it," at this, his dejection reached its peak, "but I mean- We weren't assigned any memorization for homework. Everyone just came to class, and he said, 'Make a potion, no books allowed', and that was it."

"I'm officially cured of wishing I was there to see it," Ron quipped, though his face was contorted in disgust. "How in the world are you meant to do that?"

" _No idea!_ " Harry shook his head, miserable. "But there's everyone going for their supplies, and Snape's staring right at me, like he's waiting for me to say I don't know what to do."

"Sounds about right," the redhead conferred, scowling.

"So... I tried it," Harry said, words heavy. "I tried to remember, just so I could wipe that smug look off his face. Went and got all the ingredients I could think of for the Wit-Sharpening Potion."

"Wit-Sharpening-!" he spluttered with a disbelieving laugh. "He did that on purpose, the slimy _git!_ "

"And it gets worse," Harry remarked, grim. "A _lot_ worse. Er... I dunno, maybe we should have done this in the dormitory or something..."

" _Harry Potter!_ "

Dobby popped into existence beside them so suddenly that Harry jerked.

"Dobby is stopping Zimsy from punishment, just as Harry Potter said!" he proudly announced. Ron snorted and, looking over, Harry could see the other elf struggling, her arms tied to a chair using dishcloths.

"Uh... great...?" Harry replied, unenthused.

"Oi, Dobby, mind fetching me some bangers and mash from over there?" Ron chimed in. "Oh, and some popovers! And the squash!"

By the end, he'd had to shout, as the elf had already skipped away, ecstatic to be of service. Harry scowled at his friend. "Seriously? Weren't you just calling them little monsters five minutes ago?"

"Changed my mind," was Ron's breezy reply.

"You're mental."

The redhead shrugged. "Nah, just hungry."

Harry raised his eyebrows as Dobby returned with an enormous platter of food. "Here is food for sirs!" the elf squeaked, beaming at them both.

"Er..." Harry looked down into those large, expectant eyes, gently pointing out: "Didn't you say you were on break, Dobby?"

"Oh yes!" the elf assured him. "Dobby is assigned to bathroom cleaning duty, but for a break Dobby wanted to clean in the kitchens!"

"Uh- aren't breaks usually times where you _don't_ have to work?"

"Professor Dumbledore is saying Dobby is allowed to do whatever Dobby is wishing on a break!" he repeated the same refrain he so gleefully offered to Zimsy. "So, Dobby is doing that!"

That was sort of missing the point, Harry mused, but it didn't seem right to call attention to it when the elf seemed so happy to be there. "Right," he conceded, though reluctantly.

Ron appeared oblivious to the entire exchange, exclaiming with a mouth full of food, "Dis is ban' on-"

Harry frowned and Dobby beamed. Shifting in his seat, he commented: "Do you seriously intend to eat all of that?"

Ron shot him a look that read very clearly as _of course, are you crazy?_ before the boy was shoveling another forkful of mash into his mouth, a pleased sigh escaping his nose. Dobby cut in, "Would sirs like more?"

Alarmed, Harry shook his head, making a quelling gesture for good measure. "No no, that won't be necessary."

The elf's ears flopped as he steadied the teetering tower of hats atop his head. "Harry Potter has been eating good?"

It was such an odd question that Harry paused with confusion. "Er... yes. It's- I'm just not hungry right now."

"Dobby is wondering what Harry Potter's summer was like!"

Oh. Was Dobby actually... worrying about him? He sounded a bit like Mrs. Weasley just then. Harry supposed the elf had a right to, since they hadn't really talked since last year. He mustered a thin smile and an answer: "It was good... No elves came to knock around in my wardrobe or drop puddings on my relatives, so that worked out."

Dobby at least had the good grace to look abashed. "Dobby was only doing those things to protect Harry Potter!"

"I know," he replied, patting Dobby on his shoulder. "You're a good friend."

Ron saw fit to interject with, "Even if you've got a funny way of showing it."

Dobby blinked his gleaming eyes, moisture threatening to tip over the lids. "Harry Potter is... is Dobby's _friend_?"

Surprised, Harry sat up, his hand falling away from the elf's shoulder. "Well... yeah. Of course."

Dobby took hold of the pink jumper he was wearing to weep loudly and openly into it. Harry cast his eyes about with worry, but none of the other elves paid him any mind. Amidst the elf's cries, he hiccuped, "H-Harry Potter is being so v-very kind to s-say so!"

"Er..."

"Dobby w-will be doing his b-best to be being a good f-friend to Harry P-Potter!"

He looked to Ron for help. The redhead shrugged, taking a bite of squash. Suddenly, the elf before him snapped to attention, though tears continued to stream down his pointed face.

"If there is anything that Harry Potter is needing, Dobby will help!"

"Just, er..." He looked over at the still-struggling Zimsy. "Maybe... let her out of there, and enjoy the rest of your break. Okay?"

The elf's expression was positively glowing with pride. "As Harry Potter says, Dobby is doing it! Dobby is always wanting to make Harry Potter happy!"

He watched as the elf dutifully returned to Zimsy before he turned his attention back to his friend. "Ah... any chance you could take that as carryout?"

"Thought you didn't want to go to the dorms," Ron stated after a long swallow.

"I don't know," Harry frowned, eyes downcast. "It's... This just doesn't seem like the place to talk about..."

Ron's brow drooped in a showing of concern. "Did something happen?"

He rose from his chair with a grim mien. "Yeah. Suppose the halls are less crowded by now? It's loud in here."

Ron appeared wary. "Probably," he muttered.

Acknowledging this with only a short nod, the two made their way out of the busy kitchens, through the portrait-door, and out into the hall. Despite the time it took to accomplish this, Harry was no closer to figuring out how to break his news to Ron.

"So, uhm, first thing's first- I'm supposed to tell you that nobody is allowed in the Hospital Wing for a day or two. Okay?"

Ron was immediately on edge. "What... does that have to do with anything?"

"It's, er- I'll get to that," Harry replied heavily.

His friend reared up slightly, arms crossed over his chest. "What's going _on,_ Harry?"

Better to just spit it out... "My potion, um- at the end of class, Snape said I had to test it on someone."

"What? Why you?"

"Who else would it be? I'm his favorite person to humiliate," Harry complained. "I made the potion. It was- I thought it was right! The color was right, the consistency was right, the finished potion was stable! But when I went to turn it in, he said that my potion was hardly worth looking at! He told me if I wanted a grade, I had to prove my potion _worked_."

"Ridiculous," was Ron's scathing reply, his brow dipping lower.

"I thought he was just finding an excuse to throw out my potion."

"Likely," his friend mused. "But I suppose the potion didn't actually work, yeah? So, who was the victim this time?"

Now was the hard bit- It was difficult to gauge how Ron would react to this news. Harry wasn't sure how he felt about it either, but he grimaced, stomach turning as he uttered the name.

"Hermione."

Abject silence. In an instant, Ron's face turned as red as his hair. " _He didn't!_ " the boy shouted, so loud that his voice careened down the corridor and around the corner. Harry winced.

"He did," Harry affirmed, morose. Ron's fists were clenched at his sides, and the sight of it flared Harry's own outrage. "And what's more- When he called on her, he said that... that for all her _brains_ she could certainly use more _wit_."

"Oh _bugger_ him!" Ron shouted even louder somehow, body lurching to head past Harry.

Alarmed, he reacted quickly. Following after, he called ahead, "Ron! Where are you going?!"

"Where do you _think?!_ " he barked. "I've had enough of that black-hearted tosser! And if Dumbledore doesn't sack him, I'll-"

"What are you going to do, attack him?" Harry countered with a teetering sense of responsibility, uncomfortable in the role Hermione would normally occupy. "You'll be expelled, Ron!"

Ron stopped suddenly, wheeling around to face Harry. "Thanks for the vote of confidence! Do you think I'm _stupid_ or something!?" Ron accused. "I _meant,_ I'm reporting that slimeball to Dumbledore!"

Oh. Harry jolted to a stop, frowning. "It still won't do any good," he insisted. "He'll just talk his way out of it, like he always does!"

"I won't let him!"

"I'm going to talk to Dumbledore today anyway," Harry sighed, deflating. "You didn't even have class with us or see what happened, so any complaint from you wouldn't make sense."

Ron shoved his hands into his pockets. "Well, I'm still going with you."

"We can't even be certain where Dumbledore is right now. And I'll be there just before curfew."

"So, what? You're saying I can't help?"

He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. "I don't know. Just... doesn't seem like there's anything we really can do."

"Anything _I_ can do, you mean," Ron corrected, bitter.

"Come on, don't be like that," Harry said. "You know what I mean."

He didn't appear mollified. "Piss off, Harry," Ron sneered. "If you think I'm going to sit around and do nothing while my friend is _suffering,_ you're mental."

"I'm sorry, okay? I wish there was more to do, but there just isn't!"

"I still think talking to Dumbledore is a good idea!" Ron shot back, petulant.

"And I said I would," Harry remarked, weary.

"Whatever," Ron grumbled, shoving his fists into his pockets. "I'm going to go see 'Mione, then."

"Er..." Harry cast a guilty look across the floor before focusing on Ron again. "I did mention we're not... allowed."

"I don't care," Ron scoffed, beginning his walk again. "What did you think was going to happen? I was going to let her go it alone, without anyone to visit? Yeah, right."

"Ron-!" Harry jogged to catch up. "You'll do more harm than good!"

"Bollocks!"

"The Wit-Sharpening Potion fouled up something with her brain, Pomfrey said!" he insisted. "She hears sounds too loud or some such! But she told me we absolutely _cannot_ go to the Hospital Wing; she's sectioned off Hermione from the rest of the ward, even!"

"Well that's _brilliant,_ isn't it?" Ron complained, wheeling around, clearly in a foul mood.

Harry faltered, slowing to a stop. "I know. I'm... I'm sorry."

"What in the world do you have to be sorry about?" Ron balked, pacing back and forth, brow furrowed in anger. "If anything, it's that grease-wad who should be apologizing- Merlin, Harry." He halted, his expression overcast as he looked Harry dead in the eye. "Hermione. How bad was she?"

"She- er..." Harry paused, the memory haunting. "The second she drank the potion, she... collapsed. Started shaking really bad, and crying..."

"That's mad," Ron blurted out. "Completely _vicious!_ Harry, can't you see it? This is _evil_. He's come after you before, but never like- he's never _hurt_ someone over it. Merlin!" Ron pulled a hand through his hair, a loud burst of breath snaking through his lips. "You don't think he's still mad about you being in his class, do you?"

Seeing the results of his first mission with Snape, that was still very much a consideration, wasn't it? All the man's vile taunts, the threats... Harry could still hear the dull clack of his wand hitting the floor of the drawing room.

"He's always had it out for me, Ron," was his comment, "but I don't know..."

"What?" Ron asked, frowning.

"You remember the night I went to talk to Dumbledore?"

"Yeah...?"

"I, er... did more than just talk," Harry confessed, scratching his head. "He actually sent me on a mission."

"What, for real?" Ron questioned, gobsmacked. "An actual mission for the old crowd?"

"Sort of?" Harry said. "I mean, not really. But... yes."

"So, what? What's this got to do with Snape?"

He frowned. "Dumbledore sent me with him. For the mission."

Ron practically reared back from the shock. "What?!"

"It's a long story," Harry prefaced, weary. "But let's just say he wasn't exactly... happy about it."

"What, so because he had to do that, he's attacking people now?!"

He frowned at his friend. "It's not so straightforward as all that," he commented, airy, "but after we got back... I happened to witness his late night meeting with Malfoy."

Ron leaned in, eyes squinting and his voice lowering to a breathy baritone: "What... sort of meeting?"

"The 'shady corner at midnight' kind."

"Well?" Ron prompted. "What did they say?"

"A lot of it was talking in circles, but Malfoy was going on about some promise Snape made to his father."

"A promise? To Lucius Malfoy?" the words heaved out of him, aghast. "A _Death Eater?_ The same bloke who tried to snuff you a few months back, and is now in _Azkaban?_ "

Harry blew out a puff of air. "Puts it all in perspective, doesn't it?"

"But honestly, you know what this means, right?"

"That nothing has changed, and Snape continues to be seconds away from outright murdering someone?"

"I mean, this time there's evidence, yeah?" Ron suggested. "You can tell Dumbledore, show him the truth about that scumbag."

With a skeptical glance, Harry mentioned, "He's been pretty clear before that Snape has his 'absolute trust', for whatever reason."

"I'm just saying," Ron groused. "We've always worked on hunches before. Now there's real evidence. He can't ignore that."

"True enough," he conceded, though his hope in that quarter was lacking. "I, uh, had another note from Dumbledore today. You suppose he wants to send me on another mission with Snape?"

"Best hope not," Ron replied, grim.

Harry glanced down the hallway as a group of Hufflepuffs came round the corner. "Yeah," he sighed, turning away. "I'll, uh... let you know how it goes."

"Right," Ron grunted. "Yeah. Sure."

••••••••••

Harry arrived at the Headmaster's office a half hour early, hoping to speak with the man in private. Unfortunately, when he knocked on the door, there was no answer.

With a grimace, he stood there, in much the same position as he had the last time he'd been forced to wait outside. Of course Dumbledore was a busy man, but he still felt jittery; the man's utter avoidance of any contact last year was still fresh in Harry's mind. Much as he would like to forget, these moments, this curious silence... He hated it.

A minute passed. Then two. Finally, the door opened outward, and out came- that Slytherin girl. Croft.

Harry couldn't mask the look of incredulity on his face. "What are _you_ doing here?" he blurted, voice quiet and skeptical.

Before she could answer, the Headmaster's voice drifted toward them. "Is that you Harry, my boy? Come in, come in."

The girl didn't even look at him, marching down the stairs without the slightest hesitation in her step. He let her go, ducking inside the Headmaster's office and pulling the door shut.

Resuming his usual seat - the armchair closest to the fire - Harry inquired, with a thumb jabbed in the direction of the door, "What's that about?"

The older man's eyebrows rose, and his tone was admonishing. "Harry, you know I cannot talk about private meetings with other students."

"Yeah, sure," was Harry's sullen reply as he slouched in his chair. Dumbledore cocked his head.

"I am surprised to see you this early, but it is rather opportune," the man commented. "I have been meaning to speak with you."

Harry looked up. "You have?"

"It has been several weeks since last we spoke," Dumbledore prefaced, "and I must say that the debrief you and Professor Snape gave was... irregular."

He tensed, suppressing a frown. How could he forget? He'd been on pins and needles, waiting for Snape to lay out all the reasons why he was worthless as an Order member. Why he hadn't was entirely beyond Harry's understanding, especially since the professor hadn't hesitated in the slightest to humiliate Harry that very morning and many times since. The thought of it caused his rage and guilt to vie for dominance in his stomach, churning up every bad feeling he harbored for the vile man.

But, before he could begin to unravel his jumble of heated thoughts in order to comment, Dumbledore had more to say. "Even more irregular was the conversation I had with our new Minister for Magic the following day."

Harry's inner thoughts struggled to a halt. "The... Minister for Magic?" he inquired slowly.

"Yes," the Headmaster amiably replied. "In fact, Minister Scrimgeour posed to me a question which I found very puzzling." Dumbledore's eyes glimmered in the candlelight as he shifted in his seat, half-moon spectacles lowering over his nose, bemused and pensive. "He asked, 'Has Harry Potter been away from Hogwarts recently?' To which I, of course, replied, 'The boy remains at school as we speak, though he surely enjoys the occasional trip to Hogsmeade with his classmates.'"

Harry shrank in his seat, his previous anger feeling quite distant, like a layer of static in the ears and nothing more. What could he say? The truth would surely lose him this precious opportunity to go on missions, and to lie would be foolish, knowing what he did about Legilimency... not that he expected the Headmaster to literally _read his mind,_ but _still_ -

"Was... was there a reason for his curiosity?" Harry asked, placing the question between himself and Dumbledore as if it would protect him from the chastisement he knew was coming.

"An astute question, and one I posed myself," the Headmaster remarked, brushing a hand down his beard in thought. "It would seem the Minister was primarily concerned with a report of underage magic performed by Harry Potter in Surrey. And not only magic, but Apparition! I informed him that, knowing you and your academics personally, I could confidently say that you had never performed such magic, and that it was quite outside your current capabilities."

It made him feel horrible that Dumbledore had been forced to lie on his behalf, no matter how plausible it might have been. So plausible, in fact, that it would have been entirely true up until that one night! Still, Harry's jaw was clenched tight, and his gaze cast off to the side, blearily surveying the edge of the carpet.

"He and I ultimately concluded that the occurrence was a rare anomaly, possibly some sort of mischief perpetrated by those who are still opposed to you and all you represent," Dumbledore explained, gazing directly at Harry in a way that made him feel skewered. "But I have to wonder if that is not quite the full story. Have you any insights, Harry?"

The sound of his own name felt painful, but- well. This was it, wasn't it? He should have known this was coming; of course Dumbledore was going to find out. If not by Snape, then by some other means. And really, what leg did he have to stand on? This was all a mess he'd created himself. It was childish to deflect and postpone this moment, which had been weighing on him for the last two weeks.

He sat up straighter, taking in a large breath for strength. "That's not really how it happened at all," Harry said, his voice coming out low in energy but deeply resonant within the quiet room.

The Headmaster's eyebrows rose. "Really?"

Harry's expression crumpled, caught halfway between anguish and frustration. "You don't have to pretend you're surprised!"

The other man seemed nonplussed by this outburst. "Oh, but I am, Harry," he commented, voice calm as he threaded his fingers before him on the desk. "The ways by which underage magic is detected are very complex, and rarely inaccurate or unfair, except in cases where context is required. I do not, however, have any context at all, outside of knowing that you actually _were_ in Surrey at that time. Although, being with Professor Snape, your movements ought to have been masked."

"They were," Harry insisted. "I mean- they would have been, except... I Apparated to Surrey by myself."

"I was not aware you knew how to Apparate," the Headmaster remarked.

"Well, I hadn't actually done it before," he admitted, his lips twisting. "Just sort of heard some people talk about what it was like."

"You are unhurt, I assume?"

"I, er... didn't splinch myself or anything, no."

"Learning Apparition by hearsay, hm?" Dumbledore chuckled. "I seem to have underestimated you once more, haven't I?"

Harry frowned. "I mean, I wouldn't call in-depth commentaries by Hermione 'hearsay'."

"But you understand this curiosity must obviously follow- since I feel certain that Professor Snape would never have _allowed_ this to occur."

"No, he didn't," Harry concurred, sour. "He actually left me in Norwich by _myself._ "

"He did, did he?" the Headmaster mumbled, pursing his lips.

"Yeah," he stated, his anger resurging, "and he didn't even tell me what he was doing! Just went about his business as if I wasn't even there!" Dumbledore didn't immediately react, or really react much at all, which only stoked Harry's ire. "If the whole point of this was for me to _contribute_ , you'll be glad to know Snape made sure I could do exactly _nothing!_ "

"Harry," the Headmaster began, his voice deliberate and calm as a counterpoint to Harry's. "Warding is quite a broad topic. It would be unfair of me to require _Professor_ Snape to teach it to you with such a time limit."

Exasperated, Harry dropped his hands atop his knees. "Well then, what was I supposed to _do?!_ You even said I should participate!"

"The goal of your previous trip was for you to learn the locations of safehouses, and the safest ways to enter them."

"Well _that_ didn't happen!"

"You used Floo travel to enter Grimmauld Place, did you not? And, I presume, you were shown how to enter the estate at Norwich?"

"Well- sort of," Harry admitted.

"And I feel certain that, given the chance, Professor Snape would have shown you the process by which we approach Privet Drive, since your summer home requires a great deal more caution to reach."

"About that," he mentioned with a glare. "Are you lot seriously spying on me at all times, or what? First there's Mrs. Figg, and now I hear about extra wards and... do all the Order members know how to Apparate there? Do people just show up without my knowing all the time, is that it?"

Dumbledore's frown was sad. "It is true your security is very important, but you are not being watched in secret."

Though he would like to take that at face value, Harry took little comfort from that pronouncement. There were still so many things he didn't know, so many things being hidden from him all the time... His mind couldn't help but jump to last year, his friends' apologetic faces when they admitted to being sworn to silence. Dumbledore's own downtrodden expression as Harry destroyed anything in the office he could get his hands on...

The memory was stark while sitting in the same room where it occurred, though it almost felt like a dream, as if it was someone else who had executed the destruction. Still, he was struck sharply in that moment by how off-putting the room looked in its current state. Clean, organized. Unaltered. As if his outburst had never happened. As if it didn't matter. Like it was being swept under the rug like so much troublesome dirt.

Harry lifted his head, expression stony and hands clasped painfully in his lap. "Has Snape always been lurking about Privet Drive?"

Dumbledore leaned forward in his seat, brows drawn together. "Harry, I have been patient up to now, but this disrespect for Professor Snape is-"

"He doesn't _deserve_ my respect," Harry interrupted, each syllable clipped. "Just tell me. Has he been around Privet Drive before?"

The older man looked displeased, his frown thinning before he answered, "Professor Snape has only been there a handful of times, and has only ever verified the wards. He has never gone anywhere near the house itself."

"Pity. Maybe my mum's wards would have incinerated him on the spot," he returned, vitriolic.

" _Harry_." His name burst from the Headmaster with such sudden severity that Harry flinched. "What has got into you?"

"Me?! What about _him_?!" Harry erupted, hands clasped so tightly that the bones in his hands were protesting. "Don't you know what happened to Hermione?"

Dumbledore's hands came together in his lap, fingers folding in on one another, as he leaned back in his chair. In an instant, the man was back to his usual infuriating calm, though there remained an edge of solemnity to it. "I imagine you have something pressing you wish to tell me about the matter."

"Yeah, it's _pressing,_ alright," he shot back. "He purposely ordered her to try a potion when he _knew_ it would hurt her!"

"That is quite an accusation," Dumbledore replied, grave. "A serious one, too."

"I'd say an extended trip to the Hospital Wing is pretty serious, don't you think?"

"Very much so," was Dumbledore's soft rejoinder, weathered fingers combing pensively through his beard.

Harry aimed a shrewd glare in the Headmaster's direction. "If you're going to just agree with what I'm saying, then can I assume that Snape is already _sacked,_ then?" he remarked, sarcastic.

There was a casual flourish of his hand on the downswing of another comb through his beard, and in an instant a scroll drew upward from a drawer below him, pulling across his desk as a quill nearby inked and then poised itself delicately at the edge of the parchment. Dumbledore relinked his hands and leaned forward, watching Harry closely. "I am afraid it won't be as easy as that," he said in a tone Harry assumed was meant to be jovial, but just missed the mark. "Official testimonies will be required- from you, other possible witnesses... you understand."

He sat up straight, chest thrown out. "Good! The whole class saw. Maybe this time we'll finally be able to be rid of him!"

Dumbledore didn't take this bait; a fuzzy eyebrow rose before he lifted a hand, as if to urge Harry to proceed.

He obliged gladly, continuing, "Snape pushed up an assignment for a memorized potion to today. Something we weren't supposed to do for at least a _month_ more. So, naturally, some-"

At that exact moment, the fireplace flared, drenching the room in pale green light. Harry's stomach dropped and his gaze slid hesitantly toward the dark figure kicking soot from his boots.

Snape.

He wore a distinct expression of disgust and reproach as he looked over at the Headmaster, but before he could voice the words which seemed to be burning behind his cold, black eyes, Dumbledore spoke. "Ah, Severus. How fortuitous that you join us at this time. I think a statement from the accused would actually be a more appropriate place to start-"

Without missing a single beat, Snape remarked, "Whatever nonsense Potter has seen fit to regurgitate likely has scant resemblance to reality."

Harry heaved in a breath, rebuttal leaning, ready and eager, against his gritted teeth. Dumbledore, however, beat him to the punch. "All the more reason for you to clear up the matter, yes?" the man pointed out, ignoring the cutting edge to Snape's tone. "I hear there was an incident involving Miss Granger?"

"An incident, yes." Snape walked further into the room, robes trailing behind him as he approached a dark, leather-backed bergère near the opposite side of the Headmaster's desk.

Dumbledore raised a few gnarled fingers to pull his half-moon spectacles lower over his nose, staring up at Snape, unnervingly casual. "I assume I can depend upon you to reprise all the salient details?"

His primary acknowledgement was a mere wave of the hand, sitting in the chair before he said, "Mr. Potter flagrantly crafted a flawed potion of such unacceptable quality that such an allowance could not even be made for a first year. When I refused to accept his subpar offering at the close of class time, he became irate and belligerent."

"The potion _was_ stable!" Harry burst out. "I worked on it for two full hours; it was bottled up! Fail me if you're going to, but at least just _take the stupid potion!_ "

Dumbledore raised a hand to silence Harry, his attention solely on Snape. "Mr. Potter mentioned that the memorization test was given a month ahead of time?"

"No exact measurements were given to the timeframe; the occurrences of memorization practicals are irregular by design. Mr. Potter is, perhaps, referring to the one month at the start of term in which N.E.W.T. Potions students were allowed to study and prepare before the practical exercises would begin."

Dumbledore glanced at Harry, head canted slightly, expectant. It was hard to think through his haze of anger, but... he had a sinking feeling that Snape was right. As a matter of fact, Hermione had been really excited about the practicals- had repeatedly reminded Harry to study. Now that he thought about it, her admonishment that he 'only had a month' had perhaps stuck in his head incorrectly.

Still, that didn't change the rest of what Snape had done. And he wouldn't give that bastard the satisfaction of conceding the point.

"Bit difficult to recall useless details like that when my friend is in the Hospital Wing because of you."

"Harry, I understand your anger. But I would ask you to refrain from speaking to Professor Snape in that manner," Dumbledore smoothed over, though his tone didn't sound so gentle. It was a warning. A stern one.

"Yes _sir,_ " he ground out, a headache beginning to form.

The Headmaster gestured toward Snape, his open palm prompting the man to continue. "You mentioned difficulty with regard to Mr. Potter turning in his assignment?"

"I hold my N.E.W.T. classes to a high standard. I take special care and time to expand their education to a professional level. I reserve the right to refuse submissions which make a mockery of the hard work demonstrated amongst the rest of the class."

"Mr. Potter holds the position that his potion was worthy of acceptance," Dumbledore pressed, his eyes traveling to watch the tail end of the quill flutter as it continued to write, verbatim, every word that passed between them.

Snape's dark gaze landed squarely on Harry, who glared back. "Yes, he made it a point to say his potion was the 'correct color', and 'stable', which further demonstrated his utter failing to grasp the subject matter.

"To start," the professor sneered, "'color' is not a correct indicator of a potion's efficacy, but merely a helpful guideline to indicate metamorphosis during the brewing process. Mr. Potter performed none of the recommended testing procedures prior to his attempt to turn in his potion. Secondly: he is unequivocally wrong on both fronts. His potion was neither the correct color, nor stable. There were several delays in his brewing process which meant that he did not finish the mixture until the very last minutes of class. His potion was not allowed to cool, and was therefore still in flux."

Harry felt as if there was some horrible creature coiled in his stomach, eating away at his insides. Of course Snape would turn all this around. Harry had even predicted as much to Ron - _he'll only talk his way out of it_ \- but he had expected to at least have the courtesy of a private meeting with Dumbledore first! The nature of the situation was such that it felt more like a public execution than a discussion.

Still, he couldn't waste this lead-in. "Well then," Harry countered, "if you _knew_ all that, it seems a little - oh, I don't know - _disgusting_ to have allowed another student to drink it."

It irritated him a little to see the slight tick in Dumbledore's lips that seemed to signal some amount of amusement as he looked at Snape as if to say: _Your volley_. This wasn't a _game._ But leave it to Dumbledore to wear a mask of gravity instead of actually being serious once in his bloody life!

"Miss Granger was in full control of her faculties when she chose to consume an unstable potion. I saw to it that she be relocated safely to the Hospital Wing following the consequences of her actions."

"Are you having a laugh?!" Harry shouted, legs propelling him out of his seat. " _You told her to drink it!_ "

"I did nothing of the sort."

"Then I would ask, Severus, that you explain what you _did_ say, in order to clear the air," Dumbledore suggested in a tone all-too-genial for Harry's taste.

Snape turned to face the Headmaster, then. "When Mr. Potter continued to insist that I accept his potion, I suggested that I would agree to grade it if he could prove that it worked properly. Then, in an effort to dissuade him, I suggested that he test it on one of his friends: Miss Granger. By no means did I require her to obey, nor was it a direct order. If anything, I expected Mr. Potter's persistent affection for heroics to end the matter entirely."

"That's a load of _shite_ , and you bloody well know it!" Harry exploded, swinging his arm out for emphasis. "You-!"

He stopped, breathing heavy, his rage so consuming that he felt paralyzed by it. How _dare_ he make it out like there was nothing wrong with what he did! It was always like this, Snape slithering out of any blame, making Harry seem the most irrational, the most _dangerous_. Hermione was injured in his class, and yet there was no responsibility for him to take? Did he really plan to pin it all on them? As if Harry and Hermione had _plotted_ to put her in the Hospital Wing, entirely against Snape's wishes? The man had _openly mocked her!_ His whole story was a bloody _farce!_

Yet, he could say none of it. His throat was impossibly tight; he felt light-headed, unable to breathe. Harry clenched his eyes closed, preventing himself from catching even the slightest glimpse of the Death Eater who sat mere feet away. He couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear to witness the man get away with this, and make out Harry to be the fool!

Several seconds passed, Harry willing himself to take in air. All the while, the room was very quiet. He opened his eyes, throwing them in Dumbledore's direction, beseeching. "Professor..." he croaked, but his voice petered off as he took in the man's expression. Calm, intent, his stare was fixed at a point separate from Harry, as if he weren't even there.

The sight of it was all too familiar, causing Harry to rear back. This was the Dumbledore of last year. The one who refused to look in his direction, the one who pretended not to hear Harry calling after him... The one who thought that shutting him out was for the best. Harry followed his line of sight to Snape, who sat similarly stoic. Their locked gazes were closed off to Harry, who stood alone at the center. There was a conversation within the abject silence, one which Harry did not have the capability to grasp. It was disconnected from him, another world away.

All his words crumbled, falling away from his mouth and back down his throat. Dumbledore's quill was poised over the parchment, very still. It could not record Legilimency. Unfortunately, neither could Harry.

He sank back into his seat slowly, staring down at his fingers in his lap. They felt numb, after all the clenching he'd been doing. This all really had been pointless, hadn't it? Where Snape was concerned, Dumbledore was never going to see reason. He was, after all, Dumbledore's only spy. He couldn't really afford to sack him, even if he wanted to.

There was a horrible ache in his chest, a harbinger of suppressed words. Suppressed emotion. He was used to the feeling, but... He'd thought he was safe from it here, in this office. Just another false assumption he'd made in his childish hope for security. For _consideration_. Those were, of course, luxuries that the Boy Who Lived could _never_ afford, he thought harshly.

It was another minute before the two roused from their communications. The Headmaster spoke first. "Ah, Harry, pardon the interruption. There were a few words I wished to exchange with your teacher in private."

Harry almost wished, would've almost preferred, if the Headmaster had just dismissed him outright, to leave him sitting outside the office again as he'd done a myriad of times before. At least that retained some modicum of dignity to it.

"It's fine," he parrotted automatically.

"I've taken the matter to heart and although the circumstances are unfortunate, I can assure you that they were not malicious, and will not be recurring."

"Great."

The atmosphere was heavy as Dumbledore turned to face him more fully. Harry could see out of the corner of his eye the way those garish robes twinkled in the light as the Headmaster moved. "Is anything the matter, my boy?"

Harry looked up, face blank. "No sir."

Dumbledore sat back again. "Was there anything further you wanted to add to your statement, Harry?"

As if this entire situation wasn't just a ploy. The corner of Harry's lip twitched downward. "No sir."

"Well," with an elegant flourish of his wrist, the quill stopped writing and packed itself away. The parchment, littered with inconsequential dictation, combusted in a manner reminiscent of Fawkes's periodic burnings. With a twitch of a finger, the ash dissipated into the air and Dumbledore wiped his hands together, although not a speck of dust had touched them. It was symbolic. Dumbledore was washing his hands of Harry's _drama_. "If everything is settled, I'd like to get to the reason I summoned the two of you here this evening."

Harry's eyes darted toward Snape before fixing themselves in the Headmaster's direction. "Another mission?" he predicted, unable to infuse his words with enthusiasm.

"One of a more delicate matter," Dumbledore impressed. "But important, nonetheless. I am entrusting the both of you to comport yourselves with subtlety and sensibility."

Snape spoke up, then. "If I may draw attention to the fact that Mr. Potter has demonstrated neither of those qualities..."

"Then that is all the more reason that he should learn from someone who has them, hm?" Dumbledore overruled him, lifting his eyebrows. "He is, after all, within a period of probation, in which you are tasked with enforcing his progress, are you not?"

The professor was quiet for a moment, expression sour. "Of course."

"I would suggest you not lose sight of your goal, then, Severus."

That was as direct and as blatant a warning that Harry had ever heard leveled at Snape. The sight of the man's muted displeasure was on some level vindicating, but did not make up for recent events.

Nevertheless, the Headmaster did not dwell long on this point. "I will need you both to make for Cardiff. There is a family whose child has gone missing, who have graciously allowed their home to be connected to the Floo network. You will question them, amass any clues about the missing child's whereabouts, and report them to me immediately."

Harry frowned. "Er, that's well enough, I guess, but what's that got to do with the war?"

"The child is born of non-magical parents. Disappearances of this sort have always been common, but I would like to be certain that there is no connection to our enemy."

 _Our enemy_. The phrase seemed more chilling somehow, when spoken so calmly. He glanced at Snape again, skeptical.

"Why us?" Harry questioned. _Can't see how a grade-A arsehole and a Hogwarts student could be much help._

"It is a low-risk mission," was the explanation. "And too, Professor Snape is our most skilled expert at amassing intelligence and interacting with people."

 _Seriously?_ "Right, sure," Harry said, lacking the energy to argue that ludicrous point.

"You would do well to watch closely, and learn, Harry. That is, after all, the purpose of these excursions."

"Watch. Learn. Stay out of the way," he replied, resentful. "Got it."

"And, perhaps," Dumbledore urged him with a worried look, "curb some of your opinions regarding Professor Snape, in the spirit of cooperation? It is only for a few hours, you understand."

Only a few hours in the company of a Death Eater. Only a few hours of pretending Hermione wasn't in the Hospital Wing. Only a few hours of playing nice with the enemy. _Our enemy_. What a cruel joke.

Needless to say, Harry refused to respond to that.

••••••••••

Upon arrival via Floo, Harry's foot caught on a hard edge, landing him face-first on the carpeted floor. The green fire subsided as he groaned, lifting himself up by his arms, face red.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! Is he alright-?"

"Do not trouble yourself with my companion's clumsiness," Snape's voice sounded above, calm. "He will recover shortly."

Something - someone - approached, hovering just above him. Bit embarrassing for this to be his first impression, he thought with a frown. He had barely registered the presence nearby when it receded back where it came from. The puzzling interaction, or lack thereof, was quickly explained.

"Sorry," a feminine voice whispered nearby. "I'm just- You _really_ travel by fireplace...?"

Using the shag carpet as an anchor, Harry wrenched himself up, dusting the ash off his robes. Lifting his eyes, he took in the quick impression of a clean, warmly-lit room, and two figures, one man and one woman, standing behind a large sectioned sofa as it acted as a moat between them. He opened his mouth to speak, but Snape beat him to it.

"My apologies. If we had realized it would cause you distress, we would have arrived via more conventional means."

His attention snapped to the professor. What on Earth was that _weird_ tone? He sounded... _friendly_ , and the pitch of it was downright disturbing- especially to ears which had only ever heard the man grumble and sneer!

"Would've saved me having to vacuum later," the woman joked in a tone that contained no humor at all. Her smile was lopsided: polite but forced. "It's fine, though. We appreciate how prompt you are."

Snape stood straight with shoulders relaxed, none of his usual looming presence in evidence. Harry noticed that he was holding a notebook of some kind (did he have it in Dumbledore's office before?), and his hair was tied back with a simple band. Despite such small changes, he was the very picture of someone that Harry didn't recognize. He seemed more a stranger than the two others who stood in the room. When the man opened his mouth, further shocks were in store. "Not to worry; your home will be left as clean as before we found it. We are, after all, here to lessen your burdens, not add to them."

Her husband shook his head. "Please don't bother yourself. Your time is better spent on other tasks, yeah?"

"Charlie."

"I just mean I want to get on with it!" he said, defensive. "Wasted enough time already."

"Let's proceed, then," Snape replied, looking about. "Is there a comfortable space to talk?"

"We are in the living room, aren't we?"

" _Charlie,_ " the woman warned again.

" _Sasha,_ " he shot back, affect flat.

Harry's eyes darted between everyone, feeling as if he were in a dream when Snape merely replied with a pleasant: "As you wish."

The professor walked past, moving toward the far edge of the sofa. "If you would both have a seat, we can begin."

The two of them did, though they sat a good distance apart from one another. The woman, Sasha, took a moment to situate herself, rearranging the various pillows to suit her taste, whereas Charlie dropped onto the cushions like a stone, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. When Snape did not immediately speak, Harry assumed he was included in this order. Shuffling over to a nearby armchair, he placed himself into it gingerly, watching the proceedings with apprehension.

Now that he was more recovered from his rocky entrance, he could more properly assess his surroundings. They were, indeed, in a living room, cozily furnished and brightly lit, despite the late hour. He could see that the entrance from which they'd arrived was very small, and looked more like an oven than a fireplace. What was more, it was raised about a foot from the ground. Harry grimaced at the sight of it, his knees and shoulder still smarting from his fall. It was a wonder he'd made it there at all, from the size of that tiny grate!

Though the fireplace was small, the mantelpiece was large, spanning the height of the wall and made of a rich, cherry wood. Beside that was a television inset between two lightly-decorated shelves, a haphazard stack of VHS exercise tapes, and a wicker basket filled with blankets. There were many pictures and vases lined up around the room, including the little table to Harry's right, where a metal analog clock and a still photo of two smiling teenage girls sat.

Snape brandished his notebook, pulling a pen from his cloak and drawing Harry's attention once more. Nonplussed, Harry remarked, "You know what a pen is?"

The two sitting adjacent both sent him identical bewildered looks. Snape raised both eyebrows. "My companion is referring to my usual habit of using a pencil," he replied, blithe as could be.

Harry cleared his throat. "Yeah, uh... Just a bit of a... joke." That's what this whole thing felt like, anyway: more and more absurd by the second. He'd met loads of wizards who were baffled by innocuous concepts like pens or rubber ducks! It wasn't so far fetched!

But, then again, these people were Muggles. It's not like they had much experience with magical people, or like they really wanted to. Just look at how they'd reacted to something simple like the Floo- it was like watching a polite version of the Dursley's horrific repulsion.

The room was uncomfortably silent for a moment before Snape turned his gaze to the other two in the room directly. "Let us begin with introductions. I am Inspector Prince, and this is my subordinate, Mr. Barrett."

He froze, frowning. Was that supposed to be him? Would have been nice to know ahead of time that they were supposed to have fake names; though, Harry mused, that probably went without saying, considering who he was.

The man's eyes raked over him, perched over his conjoined fingers. There was a moment of deliberation before he accused: "Bit young, isn't he?"

"Charlie, _honestly._ "

His stare shifted toward his wife as Snape rattled off his answer. "Our office sees merit in granting apprentices on-the-job training."

"Oh, _lovely,_ happy to know we can be a bloody case study for you-"

"Jesus Christ." When Harry looked at her, Sasha's head was shoved into her palms with great exasperation.

Charlie's body twisted toward her. " _What?_ It's true! And I told you this would happen. First that debacle with the Constable, and now this? What would these people care about our Violet? Sending us some rubbish, dog-eared 'inspector' and his _intern-_ "

"I'm sorry for my husband," she cut in, leaning forward. "He's stressed. We both are. But we appreciate the help." Charlie slumped, attitude decidedly sullen.

"Let me assure you both, our office is taking your case very seriously," Snape emphasized, taking up a position standing beside the fireplace. "Now, we are aware of your initial statement, but, in the interest of thoroughness, please outline the day of your daughter's disappearance for the official record."

Surprisingly, it was Charlie who spoke up. "The day? Was Saturday. We were all up for an early breakfast, but then I had work to do in the study - I'm a database programmer for Automsoft. That was a big chunk of my day, so I'm not sure where Vi was-"

"We all kept to ourselves really," Sasha cut in. "He was working, I was cleaning. Violet helped me sort out the laundry, but when her sister woke up, she spent a good bit of time upstairs with her." She stopped a moment, staring down at her hands. "Her- Her sister is Callie. She's staying with us right now while her husband is on tour, since she couldn't go traveling while pregnant and- it's been rough, lots of accommodations, you understand, but Violet has been incredibly gracious."

Snape nodded, scribbling down a note of some kind. "Did she go anywhere else that day?"

"I don't _think_ she did," the woman murmured. "I may have heard her make a few phone calls, but she likes to stay in on weekends."

"Yeah," Charlie uttered, leaning back on the sofa. "We've been doing these activities with her since she's been home, with a group we joined about four months back. They had an art exhibition on and Violet was counting on it. Thing was, when we were near ready to go, Callie had a sudden health scare. She's at the end stages of her pregnancy, y'know, and we don't want to take risks. So we were off to hospital, just to make sure things were okay, but Violet was mighty upset about it."

"She wanted us to reconsider, but that's our grandbaby on the line! Can't just ignore something like that."

"Exactly," her husband agreed. "And that was around- what time was it? Six?"

She nodded. "Nearly, yes."

"I just know it was seven by the time we got to hospital," he concluded, looking back to Snape. "We didn't make it home until about half eight. House was dark, Vi wasn't in her room. We weren't too worried, because-"

"Because sometimes she takes walks, see?" his wife interjected. "To clear her head? And it was the first big argument we've had for a while-"

"So, Sasha rang her mobile but she didn't pick up. But, y'know, fair's fair. We knew she was angry, but she's not irresponsible. Gave her about ten minutes before calling again-"

"- I think I called her about three times -"

"- that's when we knew something was wrong and we called for the police."

During this recitation, Snape had been writing vigorously. Without missing a beat, he said, "I see. And I assume the police did not react favorably?"

"'She's sixteen,' they said," Sasha recounted, derisive. "'Probably run off with a boyfriend."

"Most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

The professor nodded. "Hence your contacting the Wizarding authorities."

"Only way for us to expand the search."

"So, this art exhibition," Snape changed direction. "Where was it going to be held?"

Charlie's frown was puzzled. "I don't- Sasha, do you?"

"Uhm... Oh! I think I still have the brochure somewhere. Hold on."

The woman disappeared into the next room, the sound of shuffling papers the only indicator of her progress. Harry expected Snape to wait for her to return, but he didn't. "Does your daughter have any friends nearby?" he inquired, glancing up from the page.

"Some," he answered. "But we've already called them. None of them have had any contact with her since the night she disappeared."

"I will need their names."

"Sure... I'll have to call their parents first to see if they're alright with that but, sure."

Harry's lip curled. "Why?" he blurted, annoyed.

"Pardon?" Charlie asked, sounding affronted.

"You want to find your daughter, so why wouldn't you just say who her friends are?" Harry accused. "I mean it's an obvious question. Even if they haven't seen her, they might know better than you where she might be."

"Do you have children?" Charlie asked, squinting hard.

"No...?" What kind of question was that?

"Then maybe you should curb your observations to what you know best."

 _What he knew best?_ He knew plenty about this! When Ginny went missing in second year, it would have done her loads of good if anyone had bothered paying better attention! None of the adults had noticed a thing as she was slowly being possessed by a madman!

Point in fact: Harry went missing all the time at the Dursleys, and they hardly cared one whit. A day without him was a boon. And if these people weren't doing everything in their power to find their daughter, then they may as well be sitting on their thumbs!

"I may not _look_ it," Harry countered, tone a touch sour. "But I know a thing or two about finding people who are lost."

Charlie turned to look at Snape. "Is this a bloody joke?"

Before Snape could answer, however, Sasha entered the room again, holding a bright purple pamphlet in her hand. "Buried under some chinese takeaway, stupid thing- here, though. The information about the exhibition is on the second fold."

She passed it into Snape's outstretched fingers before resuming her place on the couch, the disruption tempering the unease of the room. Snape's eyes passed over the brochure for only a brief moment before he looked up once more.

"London? That is two hours by train, is it not?"

"Just about, yes," Sasha answered.

Snape squinted at his notes, tapping his chin with the pen. "Does your daughter own any magical forms of transport?"

"Nothing like brooms or such," Charlie answered. "But ah- she knew how to do that thing. What was it called? Abration-?"

"Aparison?" Sasha chimed in, biting her lip.

"Apparition," Snape smoothly corrected. "Though, seeing as your daughter is sixteen, she would not be licensed to perform such magic."

"Right, well, that's all she knew how to do."

"Were you aware if she had any friends from school who may have met with her?"

An embittered laugh boomed from Charlie. "What, you too?"

The professor's eyebrows rose, uttering only an obtuse, "Hm?" Harry ducked his head, not wanting a repeat of the man's earlier critiques to surface.

However, Charlie leaned forward, scowling. "My daughter didn't _run away._ She wouldn't _run away_ from home."

"I merely wish to ascertain whether or not she could have been in contact with those able to provide a means for magical travel. This information will determine the search area."

Yeah, and the options were "nearby" or "literally anywhere", Harry thought. That hardly narrowed anything down.

"Charlie, would it matter?" Sasha piped up.

"What?"

"Would it matter? Kidnapped? Run away? Either way, she's gone. It's better to know all our options. If she ran away, so what? It's still worth looking into."

He didn't answer, his sneer enduring as Sasha turned to look at Snape, earnest. "Inspector, I don't know anything about her magical friends. It's possible she kept in contact. I can give you her number so you can cross reference it with the phone company, see who she's been calling. If that would help?"

Harry very much doubted that her magical friends even knew what mobile phones were, considering the Wizarding World's affection for owl post. These people had a daughter who was magical, and they didn't even know that much?

He was beginning to dislike them more and more.

And then there was Snape, patient as can be. Not a snide word or cutting barb to be found, despite how obviously clueless those two were. The sound of his "pleasant" voice was beginning to sicken Harry. "That would be helpful, yes," was his agreeable reply. "And the landline as well, to cover all bases."

"Okay," Sasha exhaled into her hands as they wrung themselves, though her words seemed more directed to herself than an answer to Snape. "Okay."

Harry looked on as Charlie's gaze darted between his wife's crestfallen expression and Snape's businesslike facade. "We did a cursory search on Saturday," he offered, evidently deciding to make himself useful. "Some of the neighbors pitched in, bless 'em. We did a good sweep of the neighborhood and a few places in town. Areas she normally frequents, you know, the usual. Did as much as we could with the amount of hands we had."

Harry's reaction was doubtful. Caustic. "And where is it you think she 'normally' goes?"

Charlie's glower was withering when his face made the slow pendulum swing in Harry's direction. "What'd you say your name was again? Barrett?"

"N-" He let out a breath. " _Yeah_. What of it?"

"Well _Mr._ Barrett. I'm already well aware of what you think of me. Your angle. Where do I _think_ she normally goes? Because I don't know my daughter, right? That's what you're getting at? That I'm such a shite father that my daughter has squirreled away this secret life from me, just waiting for the moment she could burst away to her freedom? That's what you think, right?"

"Charlie, for the love of god-"

"Shut it, Sasha!" The bellow radiated from him with such potency that it pummeled the entire room into an uneasy quiet. His hands were white knuckling his knees and when Sasha relented, sitting back against her fortress of couch pillows, he turned his gaze to Harry again.

"That's what you think, isn't it?" he prompted, his voice lowering to a quiet drone.

Harry's chest swelled, and his hands were balled into fists. "Why shouldn't I?" he countered.

Snape attempted to cut in, a sharp glare aimed directly at him. "That is _quite_ enough from you-"

"Let me tell you a thing or two about my family," Charlie stated in a dangerous tone. "Let me tell you a thing or two about what it's like to have it thrust on you, out of nowhere, that your daughter is not only magical, but that there exists an entire fucking _world_ that has been there the entire bloody time, and she has to be a part of it, regardless of what _you_ want. Doesn't matter if it means sending your youngest off to god knows where in the bell end of Scotland with no means to keep in contact, for far longer than you want her to be gone. It'd be too _convenient_ to actually provide _resources_ \- better to let you just take this information and _drown_ in it!"

The man's expression was brimming with disgust. He instinctively shrank back as the man collected his energies in order to spew them in Harry's face. "And let's not forget when your little girl comes home after an entire bloody year _alone_ , spending nights crying over things you don't understand, because there's an entire _culture_ with politics and nuance that she's not even _equipped_ to begin explaining to you! So you're bloody helpless- nothing at all to do but hold her. And that's not enough. Years go by, and she's getting used to being separate from you and your family. Not a damn thing you can do about that, either. Then, she's graduated, aimless- no opportunity, no prospects... rejected from one world on the basis of pedigree, and no credentials to get by in this one! You begin to think that bloody school she was _forced_ to attend was a colossal waste of time! But you do your damndest to be there for her, to make sure she knows that no one thinks badly of her because she's having a harder time figuring things out - she's sixteen, for chrissake, how is she supposed to know what she wants to do?

"But then, there's help," the words poured out of him, breathless. "Finally, after all these years, there's help, with people who know what you've gone through, who understand what it's like to be in your position. And you're finally seeing progress - real, _actual_ , progress. You're seeing her smile for the first time in years. You're actually able to understand the things she's talking about, you're able to actually give her solace, advice, a way to move forward. Then there's just one night - _one_ night when that goes _tits up_ because of circumstance. And you come home and your little girl is... gone.

"I know very well what you and your kind think of me, my family, my daughter." Tears misted in his eyes and he swiped his thumb under his nose. "But my Violet didn't run away," he said, adamant, his voice a quivering warning. "She didn't."

There was a heavy, stunned silence following his statements. His wife was quite affected, her hand over her mouth, hair falling across her wrist as her posture drooped. Harry himself couldn't meet the man's eyes, instead casting his gaze off to the side. He wasn't sure how to feel, but what could he say to that, really?

He made the mistake of looking at Snape. The professor was staring straight at him, his glare in full force. The message was undeniable. _Keep your mouth shut_.

Then, he watched as Snape schooled his expression, turning it toward the couple. "Mr. Ayers-"

"Do you have any other questions?" the man asked, tear stricken, but somehow utterly composed. "Or do you have what you need to commence your investigation?"

A moment passed in quiet as Snape formulated his answer. "We will be in touch," he murmured, closing his notebook and stowing away his pen. "We will not trouble you further tonight."

Charlie's head turned in a slow, agonizing creak toward his wife. "Sasha. The numbers."

The butt of her palm maneuvered in front of her eyes as she let out a covert sniffle, leaning forward to search the coffee table for something to write with. There was an excruciating silence when she found none, skirting the same empty patches of glass, until Snape leaned forward to offer his. When she took it, it was with a shaky hand, as she pulled the purple pamphlet toward her and wrote a sequence of numbers across the figures at the bottom.

"Thank you," the professor said, taking both objects from the woman's hands. Then, his shrewd eye landed on Harry. "Now, come."

"But-"

" _Come_."

Harry's legs obeyed and he trailed after Snape, resolving to stare down at the back of the man's boots. They did not return through the fireplace, as he had supposed they would; the professor led them straight out the front door, across the short driveway, and down the lane.

The night sky was littered with stars, but they were hard to make out with all the city lights. Still, the street was quiet enough, lined with houses that were huddled together, conspiring, solemn watchmen keeping an eye on the figures as they passed. When they had walked about a block, Harry burst out, "Where are you _going?!_ "

Snape stopped short, swinging himself around to face Harry. The sudden movement was alarming, but not as much as the man's expression. "I must now locate a proper place to Disapparate because of _your_ indiscretion!"

"What are you talking about? We could have used the Floo again!"

"Are you _simple?_ " Snape spat. "Your plan, in all your infinite wisdom, is to further disturb and antagonize the members of that family?"

Well, when he put it like _that_... "No!" Harry's brow furrowed and he rubbed his hands together. "It's just... We would be gone in two seconds. It's not a big deal-"

"For those unaccustomed to watching people disappear, it would indeed be a 'big deal'," the man sneered back at him. "It is fascinating to see that, despite your apparent unequivocal devotion to the Muggleborn cause, you seem to have very little understanding of what that means."

"I _do_ understand!" Harry barked, raising his voice. "I grew up around Muggles my whole life!"

Snape performed a derisive snort, turning heel and walking off once more. "That so? You could have fooled me."

Catching up with the man, Harry snarled: "Don't act all high and mighty! You were the one _lying_ right to their faces! Acting like you're _so_ nice and considerate!"

"Yes- that was clearly an unacceptable violation; I ought to have taken your example of _insulting_ them, hm? Surely that would have accomplished our goal."

"Well, what kind of parent just assumes they know everything about their kid like that? Like they're the only bloody authority? He can't know for sure that she didn't run away- He's defending his pride, not his daughter!"

Snape rounded on him once more, encroaching on Harry's space uncomfortably, his gaze sharp as he looked down his nose. "And what is it you think _you_ are doing?"

Harry's breath fell out of him and he looked up at the other man with trepidation. Though the professor did not advance, he took a small step backward to regain a safe distance, the side of his mouth twitching downward.

The man gave a disdainful sniff, straightening his back. Harry glared at him before saying: "Don't pretend like you care about these people anyway. You're only doing this because Dumbledore told you to."

"At least I can do that much," Snape countered, tone frosty.

"At least I have _morals_."

"What use are morals in wartime?" was Snape's waspish reply. "Morals do not solve problems, nor do they protect you from your enemies."

"Yeah, but they make me _different_ from my enemies," Harry argued, fists clenched at his sides. "I'd rather die a good man than live a _shite_ one."

"Intriguing philosophy coming from someone who just told a distraught father that he did not care about his daughter."

His headache was rapidly returning. "Well, how can they? Their daughter is graduated from Hogwarts, but they're still freaked out by the Floo? It doesn't make sense!"

Snape shoved something against his chest, and he flinched back, only to find that it was the pamphlet from earlier. He hesitated, "What-?"

" _Look_ at it, you imbecile."

He would rather have refused in his rebellious state, but found himself looking down at the paper in his hands instead. The front was a deep purple, with a glowing logo of interlocking black and white rings emblazoned upon it. Below the logo was a name: "Concordia...?"

"An organization for Muggleborns and their families, to help them connect to the magical world," Snape elucidated as he folded his arms. "That 'group' Mr. Ayers was attending? They were meetings from this organization."

Harry flipped open the brochure, eyes skimming over the contents. "The art exhibition..." he muttered with recognition.

"You grew up with Muggles, did you not? How familiar are you with their world? Do you know how to drive a car? Use a mobile? Manage money? Apply for a job?"

"Er... well..."

"Have you any credentials which allow you access to healthcare? Travel? Education? Do you understand their government, their laws, their customs?"

Harry was silent, meeting Snape's gaze.

"... No? Then it stands to reason why they would not understand our world either."

With a sigh, Harry asked, "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because you are a fool," was Snape's scathing judgment. "You would rather alienate our only source of information due to some perceived barbarism than skew the truth in an effort to conduct a proper investigation."

"What do you care about a proper investigation?" he replied.

The man ignored his question, instead saying, "What do you propose we tell them? That we are members of a secret organization, and we were merely wondering if their daughter might have been murdered by dark wizards? How well do you suppose that would have gone over?"

"You don't have to take it that far..." Harry grumbled.

"The troublesome thing about _morals_ is that people like you only seem to have them for your own benefit," the professor snarled. "I perform my job efficiently, doing whatever is necessary to succeed. What exactly did your pedantic groanings accomplish?"

Loathe as he was to admit it, the man had a point. He _hated_ that he had a point, but the fact remained. All Harry had really done was aggravate the people they were supposed to be questioning. It was just... they had reminded him so starkly of the Dursleys... But that was foolishness too, wasn't it? The pamphlet he was holding told him so; even if they were pretty out of touch with the magical world, this at least proved they were trying, didn't it? That was more than the Dursleys had ever done.

Fingering the brochure in his hands, Harry sighed, feeling as if his frown might etch onto his face permanently at this rate. "I get it, okay?" he grumbled. "I shouldn't have said what I did."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "What was that?"

"I said _okay!_ You're right! It was bloody stupid to pick a fight with a bloke who's worried about his daughter! Is that what you wanted to hear?"

The professor stared at him, unmoving, before his next words leisurely emerged from his mouth. "You do realize your actions have severely shortened the allotted time we have to investigate? That you've completely squandered a hard won lead?"

"Great. Rub it in."

The man's lip curled. "Any discomfort you feel is a consequence of your own failings."

Harry erupted in a short, mirthless laugh. "Oh, yeah? Going to tell me again how Hermione got what was coming to her? Don't think I forgot."

Snape's expression blanked entirely and he walked off, leaving Harry in the cold once more. With an exasperated sigh, he moved forward, struggling to keep up with the man's brutal pace.

"You pushed her to take that potion! You _provoked_ her! And what's more, she knew that if she didn't, I would fail outright!" he pelted the accusation at Snape's back.

"Granger knew your potion was abysmal and she took it anyway."

"I'm sure she thought she could grin and bear it! Then at least I'd have a fair shake at having any grade at all!"

"As I said-"

"And I'm sure that, laughable as it is, she trusted _you,_ as our _teacher_ , not to goad her into injuring herself!"

For a long moment, the only sounds between them were their footsteps and Harry's heavy breaths. He wasn't quite sure why he felt the need to defend Hermione in this moment, especially considering the circumstance. What did Snape care about her, or any of them? Aside from Slytherins, he'd never seen Snape offer the barest of considerations to anyone. At least not _honestly_.

The professor made a sharp turn into an alcove, causing Harry to rush to catch up. Rounding the corner, he found the man simply standing in partial shadow, eyes locked on his. When Snape spoke, his words were measured and stark. "Listen carefully, _Boy Who Lived_. While you continue to divert the matter at hand so you can bemoan the past, casting about for someone to blame, a girl could be dying as we speak. We were sent to investigate the possibility of _Death Eater_ involvement in her disappearance, which means there is a very real chance that every second wasted adds to this girl's suffering, and increases the likelihood that she will never return to her parents."

Harry shivered, the air around him suddenly feeling several degrees colder. The sinister figure before him exhibited such expertise at terror that he could easily be mistaken for a boggart. And how could he deny this plain truth: That a girl could be dead because of him, simply because they didn't know enough to be able to find her?

He felt frozen, and Snape resumed his diatribe with heated energy while Harry's stomach twisted in knots. "You want to be respected? You want to be an Order member? Thus far, all you have managed to exhibit is an impetuous attitude and a reckless contempt for anyone but yourself. You disregard the sacrifices made, the lives put on the line to provide us this single thread of opportunity."

His heart was an unrelenting drumbeat in his ears. The lives put on the line...? Well, of course. That family didn't know about the Order- that went without saying. They must have contacted the Ministry, except then the questioning would have been done by their personnel... Which meant that there were people who had covered this up. Order members who had risked their jobs, possibly risked imprisonment, to allow for an investigation without Ministry interference.

And he'd gone and mucked it up, hadn't he?

Snape took an encroaching step forward. The menacing drone of his voice seeped under Harry's skin, painful. "You contribute nothing to this cause but a symbol. A child who merely plays at adulthood, failing to assume the full weight of it, will never survive this war."

Harry had no reply, no counterarguments to offer. Just oppressive static in his mind. He felt scrubbed raw as the man drew nearer, his arm raising up with such speed that Harry anticipated a blow. There wasn't one- Snape was merely beckoning for them to Apparate away, but the dread and anguish which went along with his instinct did not dissipate.

He didn't say a single word after that. Not when they disappeared from Cardiff, nor throughout their entire report to Dumbledore.

Funny enough, the Headmaster didn't seem to care.

••••••••••

Charms was a strange affair without Hermione. Ron wasn't in class either, and hadn't even shown up to Transfiguration that morning; he'd developed a nasty habit of skipping lessons of late, but Harry was certain that their charged discussion the day before hadn't helped matters. Perhaps it was for the best, since Harry wasn't sure how he was going to explain to Ron that he'd been able to accomplish nothing.

Truth be told, he wasn't feeling his best either. After a sleepless night, he felt more a ghost than a person, floating from place to place with sluggish initiative. Maybe he should have gone Ron's route and not come at all, but his body seemed determined to keep his schedule, even if his brain was far removed.

In such a state, he found himself unexpectedly paired with Croft for the entirety of class time, Professor Flitwick's primary explanation being that both their regular partners were not in attendance. Harry's displeasure was dull, and he did not complain, merely transferring himself across the room to sit beside her with a detached obedience.

Following the lecture, _Emergency Healing Procedures_ was written on the blackboard behind the professor, and Harry grimaced at the instructions listed below. _Incision spell to partner's forearm, inspect with visualization charm, clean the wound, bandage it, and send up a homing flare with a message attached._

Harry cast his gaze toward his partner. Croft's profile was stoic, focused. She didn't acknowledge his attention at all. Considering their previous encounters, he supposed she couldn't be faulted for that. "Guess you get to cut me open today," he commented, breezy. "So. There's that to look forward to."

The look she shot him was scornful and familiar; he couldn't help but think of Charlie. "I'm not, actually."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "What?"

"I'm not cutting you."

His eyes darted between the board and her frigid expression. "Er... It's in the instructions, you know?"

"I can read, yeah," she returned, acerbic. "But I can't do the spell."

"How d'you mean?"

"I just can't do it?" she asked, incredulous.

Harry was just as confused as she was. "Do you not know the incantation?"

She frowned. "It has nothing to do with the incantation, no."

"Then...?"

"It doesn't work when I-" she stopped short, exhaling. "Watch."

With that, she lifted her wand and took hold of his forearm with her other hand. Without preamble, she pressed the tip against his skin.

" _Abscindo,_ " she commanded, and...

Nothing. He braced himself for the sting, but nothing came. "Uh... That's... odd. Isn't it?" The spell was about as rudimentary as one could expect. Say the words, draw with the wand, and a simple cut would form. Easy. Painless, even, provided that nothing vital was disturbed.

So why...?

"Yeah, well, I'm used to it."

Harry frowned. "This happen a lot?"

"Every time I do a spell of this nature."

His stare fell down to his arm. "Suppose it's up to me," he concluded. "Who shall I injure first?"

She proffered her forearm, fingers already balled into a fist. "Just get on with it."

"Right." Gripping his wand, he laid the tip at the center of her forearm. " _Abscindo._ "

Dragging the wood a few inches, a cut unfurled her skin. It was honestly a bit unnerving, to purposely injure his classmate like this... especially when she didn't even flinch. There was a solemn energy between the two of them.

"Did that hurt?" he found himself asking, searching for any kind of reaction.

"I guess," she murmured, unconvincing, her eyes focused on the redness that began to swell and rise from the wound. "You better hurry. I don't want there to be a mess."

"Yeah..." He didn't think he could handle a gruesome cleanup just then. " _Intus Videre_."

From the surface of the girl's arm, a glowing form shimmered into view. Hovering directly above was a copy of her arm, made up of colored lines to represent different parts of her anatomy. The bones and skin were most obviously recognizable, the former a light cyan hue and the latter a thin outline of yellow. Then, the blood vessels branched across the whole of the arm, each tributary gleaming with bright silver light. At the spot where he'd cut her, he could see the incision parting the yellow line, and a pool of silver was gently welling up atop it.

She appeared transfixed by the display. "Just a few millimeters above my brachial artery," she murmured, distant. "Didn't go that deep, did you? Just barely hit the dermis."

He shot her a look. "Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?"

"Probably not," she mused, the fingers on her wounded arm uncurling as she relaxed. The glance she offered him was cursory before she leaned forward, pointing at the image. "See this large silver line, starts from the humerus, snakes beside the elbow, heading for the ulna here? That's the brachial artery."

If she hadn't visually pointed it out, he would still have no clue what she meant. With a quirked eyebrow, he observed, "Sounds like you're off speaking in a separate language."

"Whatever," she brushed off, leaning back in her seat. "I think it's neat."

Rather than reply, Harry continued on to the next spell, using a simple _Tergeo_ to siphon the blood away from her arm and onto a bit of spare parchment on the table. Then, hesitating for a short moment as he tried to remember the incantation, he bandaged her arm.

After that, he glanced back at the chalkboard. "I know how to set up a flare, but when did we learn about homing flares?" he remarked with a frown.

"It was in the chapter we were assigned last weekend," she reminded him. "Did you do the reading?"

Harry grimaced. If he remembered correctly, he'd done a lot of skimming. "Sort of. It's a two-part incantation, I remember."

"Sort of," she repeated, appearing a great deal like she wanted to say something more, but refrained from doing so. While flexing the fingers on her bandaged arm, she grasped her wand and swirled it up toward the ceiling. " _Remigro!_ "

A burst of blue light shot from her wand like a shooting star, its tail wavering as it slowed its ascent and turned toward its intended target, which was evidently Harry himself. Dropping back the way it came, it landed on the desk beside him with a sizzling thump, dissipating entirely within a second.

"And to attach the message, you've got to write it ahead of time, to send it with the flare," Harry recited, the passage coming back to him. Ripping off a section of their spare parchment, he poised his quill over it, just then remembering: "Oh, er... I'm supposed to write your full name."

She sighed, eyes closing. "C-L-Y," she recited, jaded. "T-E-M," she paused opening her eyes once more so she could watch his hand. "N-E-S-T-R-A."

What a mouthful. "Clytem...nestra Croft?" he read out as he finished writing.

"That's me," she replied, casual, as she shrugged.

He finished writing out the information that Flitwick required, namely her house and his own name, before casting the spell at the scrap of parchment in his hand. As the blue light hit it, Harry swirled the flare upward into the air, releasing control of the spell just before it hit the ceiling, and allowing it to find its own way to the target: the professor.

Holding up the parchment that Harry had sent to him, Flitwick squeaked, "Very good, Mr. Potter! Switch off now!"

Nodding, more to himself than anyone else, he pulled up the sleeve of his robe and made a cut on himself. Except- _ouch_ , that was a bit deeper than he'd have liked. He hissed in a breath, brows drawn low as he offered his bleeding arm to his partner.

She hesitated a lot less than he had, the glowing image of his anatomy floating up in an instant, as her fingers stabilized his arm so that the rivulets forming wouldn't begin to drip over onto the desk. "Wait- _Jesus,_ kid. A bandage isn't- hold on."

He watched as she cleaned the blood away, but added in a soft _Episkey,_ his sinew stitching itself together again and closing into an inflamed line.

" _Ferula,_ " she concluded and a bandage coiled, snake-like, around his forearm.

"That was... efficient," Harry commented.

"Happy to impress," she responded, bored.

Was this awkward? This was pretty awkward. Harry cleared his throat, scratching the side of his head and looking out across the classroom as Croft wrote out her own note for the flare. The last time they had spoken, he'd said some... _reckless_ things, to borrow a phrase from Snape. So, of course this encounter was never going to be pleasant.

It was strange, even. Because she was a Slytherin, everything she did was normally colored differently in his mind, but- after last night, and after sitting beside her for the whole of class time, she just seemed... normal. A touch short with him, maybe, but he'd been pretty short with her before, too. She had yet to make any snide remarks or sabotage him in classes, though they shared four of them. Not to mention, having watched her bandage his arm in under a minute, yet also witnessing her complete inability to cast the first spell, his assumption that she'd been lying about needing tutoring seemed unfounded.

"That's that, then."

At the center of the classroom, Flitwick waved in their direction to signal that he'd received the message. Harry hadn't even noticed her send the flare.

"Must be more tired than I thought," he mumbled with a sigh.

Her response was a noncommittal hum as she leaned over to gather her things into her bag, idly scratching the bandage on her arm. Supposing he should do the same, Harry haphazardly stuffed his quill and Charms text into his own bag, fighting with the strap as it became entangled underneath the large book.

The class was coming to a close, and there was a sort of nagging feeling itching inside his brain, the feeling that he ought to say something important. Trouble was, it was hard to parse what it was that he needed to say, or how to say it properly.

The girl sitting beside him was out of her seat the exact moment Flitwick dismissed them. Harry experienced a moment's startled hesitation before he too made his hasty way out the door. Spotting her blonde head traveling down the hall, he caught up with her in moments.

Of course, now that words had to actually come, he felt quite at a loss. "Er... Hey."

She seemed thrown off kilter, her stride slowing as she addressed him, off handed: "Hello."

He clutched the strap of his school bag like a life preserver. "Mind if I walk with you?"

She looked at him, bewildered. "You seem to already be doing so."

Harry's shrug was diffident and he let out an uncomfortable laugh. "Right, uh... Guilty."

"Yep," the word left her in a stiff exhale.

"I was wondering if I could talk to you, actually," he stated, looking at the floor.

"Would it even matter to you if I said no?"

"Yes."

Harry was himself surprised at the quickness of his answer, but it held true. He glanced at the side of her face, but she didn't outwardly react.

"I was going to head out to the greenhouses," she said abruptly, staring straight ahead.

Harry did not reply, but continued to keep pace with her she traversed the snow-covered grounds. It was in taxed silence that he contemplated what it was he might say, what he was looking for from this conversation. Was it only to apologize? Such a thing might seem disingenuous if he did nothing to reinforce it. Not to mention, he still disliked her attitude toward Professor Tenenbaum, though she had refrained from further open hostility since that first outburst.

In the erratic drift of his thoughts, where he seemed to get no closer to reaching a conclusion the longer he sorted through them, they arrived in one of the greenhouses, his only signal to this being the hard _thud_ of Croft's bag landing against the side of one of the tables, rousing him to the present.

By the time he looked up at her, she was halfway across the space, her words sneaking in his direction before her body had the chance to face him.

"So, why the sudden urgency to talk?" she asked with a wry twist of the lips. "Not thorough enough of an interrogation last time?"

Harry dropped his bag on the dirt floor, allowing a gust of air to whoosh out of his lungs. "Yeah... about that," he broached. "You were serious, yeah? About needing tutoring?"

Her head canted and she observed him, eyes keen on him as if trying to pick him apart. "I wasn't the one who asked for it."

Not really the answer he was looking for, but the question did sort of answer itself, didn't it? "Right, but- you could use it."

"You're probably right about that," was her bland, almost surly response.

"Well, then," he said, his roving gaze focusing back on her, "I shouldn't have acted like I did. Y'know. Before."

She leaned back against the glass pane. "Like all but accusing me of selling out Muggleborns to Malfoy?" she saw fit to shove in his face.

"I mean, the point is I don't really know you," Harry remarked with a grimace. "And coming out of the gate with all that stuff with Malfoy... I was kind of a prat."

For the first time, her stare left him, plummeting to the floor as she scraped her foot against the ground, deep in thought. It wasn't long before she admitted, "I'm not really understanding where this is coming from."

He shrugged. Obviously, the events of yesterday were off-limits. "I did agree to tutor you, didn't I?"

"Not for real," she countered. "And forgive me if I'm wary to accept that over the course of a couple weeks, you had a rapid enough shift in paradigm to explain... this." She gesticulated vaguely.

"I don't know." Harry shoved his hands in the pockets of his robe. "Things happened; I don't want to talk about it."

She appeared to consider him for a few moments longer before she tossed her head skyward, sighing. "While I appreciate the gesture," she began, "this... isn't going to be necessary."

Harry lifted his eyebrows, mouth twitching into a frown. "Not necessary? Er- it was made pretty clear that you are failing Defense."

"I'm not exactly certain I'm finishing out the term, so..."

"Wait- really?" he blurted on impulse. That wasn't at all what he'd been expecting to hear.

"What?" she volleyed back, somehow appearing just as bewildered as he was.

"I mean..." Harry backtracked, his arms falling to his sides. "Why wouldn't you? Don't you need N.E.W.T.s or something? For... whatever it is you're doing?"

"I'm honestly not all that worried about my N.E.W.T.s at the current moment."

He wasn't certain why he felt like arguing the point, but the prospect of leaving the school for no discernable reason was... "It's only a few months into term, and you already want to leave?"

Her expression soured. "And if I do?"

He bristled, sensitive to every slight change in her tone. "Well-" Harry grimaced at the flurry of memories which assaulted him, most containing Hermione and McGonagall, regarding the importance of magical education. Unfortunately, he couldn't seem to grasp onto any of them, fleeting and frantic as they were. And that was without making mention of how much he generally hated those lectures when they were directed at him.

"Is this why you left the first time?" Harry questioned, unable to stop himself from voicing the thought. "Because you just... gave up?"

The laugh that spilled from her was virulent. "You sure do love assuming things, don't you?"

Her words stilled him. "It's just a question," he pointed out.

For a moment, the two of them stood like statues in a garden. Harry felt creaky, like his joints weren't seated properly in his limbs, and he fidgeted, glancing about as if he were searching for an escape route hidden amongst the plants.

Then, the girl crossed the distance between them and Harry felt himself tense, only to let out a breath when he noticed her bend down and pick up the bag she'd left beside the table. He watched as she dug through it, pulling an unfamiliar, well-worn text book from within. In seconds, she flipped the front cover open, pulling out a folded square of paper.

Observing her closely, he could see her face was scrunched in concentration, holding the textbook under her armpit as she used her fingers to unfold the paper. He noticed writing - a letter maybe? - but she set it aside. The object of import was evidently what had been hidden _inside;_ she shoved it his way.

"This is why I left."

It was a photograph. An old polaroid. He'd seen Aunt Petunia fooling around with disposable cameras before on the few vacations he'd been allowed to attend. There were albums filled with hundreds of pictures of Dudley that had a similar look to the photo in his hand.

However, the nature of this picture was quite different. It was an image characterized by imperfection: there _she_ was, all smiles, hair in disarray across her shoulders as she sat in the back of a vehicle. The lighting was a touch dim, the colors tinged with an early morning hue, and the seat was strewn with miscellaneous clutter, including a crumpled bag of takeaway, a pale green blanket, and a stack of papers. Croft's arms were bundled at her chest, where there lay... a newborn, with sleepy eyes and puffy cheeks.

Harry blinked. His eyes darted between the two faces in the photo, unable to process. Then, he glanced up at the girl next to him, surveying her determined expression. It was odd, he thought, that in all the months he'd shared classes with her, this photo was the first he'd seen her smile.

Harry looked back at the image in his hand. "Who...?"

With her arms crossed, she glanced down to the floor. Something in her tone shifted, almost imperceptible. Hard to pin down, but undeniably there.

"That," she uttered, a few strands of hair falling over her eyes, "is my son."


	6. Little One

Happy belated New Year everyone! We hope you all had fun. Here arrives the newest chapter. We hope you enjoy. Thank you, as always, to our lovely betas, who keep us thriving.

For chapter images and faster updates, check us out on AO3!

Coming Soon - Chapter 7: Dichotomy

••••••••••

"You… have a son," Potter repeated, slowly, as if the words had entered his ears on a delay.

It wasn't a surprising development, his bewilderment. She was used to it at this juncture. Out of all the reactions she'd endured when breaking the news to strangers, this particular one was middling.

"Yes I do."

"You left school to have a baby."

"That's the gist of it, yes," she affirmed, her arms dropping to her sides.

The boy squinted at her. "How'd you manage that?" he blurted, the words clearly traveling directly from impulse to mouth.

"Which part?"

His brows drew downward, expression pained. "Er… The part where you left school and came back."

"I almost didn't," she admitted, shrugging.

He proffered the photo in his hands to her and she took hold of it. Then, he commented, "I've been told that coming back is not very common."

"For good reason," she told him. "It's pretty hard to bounce back into this life after disruptions like that."

"Then…" The boy met her eyes. "Why did you?"

"I don't know," she found herself saying, staring down at her son's face as her thumb swiped over the gloss of the photo. There were reasons. None fit to mention to someone she didn't know, at least. But all the same, she often wondered if those reasons were worth it.

Considering Snape's disposition, that answer was still a resounding "no."

Potter scratched the side of his head, more of a listless gesture than a purposeful one. "I don't really understand you," the boy remarked.

"Well, you're not alone in that," she murmured, glancing up again.

"Isn't there anything you want to do? You know- after school."

"Yes, of course," she replied. "But it isn't relegated to just here, you know."

His head tilted. "How's that?"

"How else? I can go to uni in the non-magical world, have a life there."

"Oh." He was still looking at her oddly. "I guess. Wouldn't that be kind of hard, as a witch?"

"Why would it be hard?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I mean…" Potter paused, appearing to choose his words carefully. "Well, you are a Muggleborn, aren't you?"

Something about his tone set her on edge. "What's your point?"

"I guess I figured I should actually ask," he commented, wry. "But I've just always thought, you know- magical people would have a hard time in a world where they don't really… fit in."

" _Understand_ ," she corrected him, a bit defensive. "They could fit in fine. They just refuse to understand."

Potter's expression was instantly puzzled. "Who? The wizards, or the Muggles?"

Bit thick, wasn't he? "Wizards?"

"Oh- er, right. Yeah. Of course."

The sudden lull in the conversation made her feel uneasy and she walked toward the worktable again, carefully folding the photo back into the letter. "So, yeah. No tutoring necessary."

He was quiet for a moment, unmoving. Then, his voice traveled over the small space between them, standing straight beside her: "Well, if that's how it is… then… before you go, could you at least tutor me?"

She glanced up from the folded paper in her hand to level him with a quizzical expression. "What?"

Potter seemed just as surprised as she was. "I can… er, I suppose the thing is, I… I need help in Potions," he admitted, eyes on the floor. "I don't really have any friends who care about it, aside from Hermione, but-" He cut himself off with a frown. "Anyway, if I don't get through this class, I'll have to give up what I've been working for, and I don't… I don't really have the kind of options you do."

It was odd, she thought, to be confronted with the idea that _The Boy Who Lived_ had "plans". It wasn't something she'd considered. Nevermind the fact that she'd never really _considered_ him at all before. She wasn't much for so-called "saviors". But…

"Pott-" her eyes closed as she shook her head, mouth slanting. "Actually, can I call you Harry?"

His eyebrows rose as he shrugged. "Uh… sure."

She turned to face him, one hand planted on the table. "You ever study chemistry, Harry?"

"No…?"

Go figure.

She pulled the textbook from under her arm, gently pressing it against his chest. "You'll hear a lot of people say that Potions is like cooking, but cooking is all chemistry. If you understand the fundamentals, you'll have an easier time."

He grabbed hold of the book, reading aloud: "'Chemistry and the Living Organism'? Also, uh, this is… really heavy."

"I don't know how long I'll be around," she told him, ignoring his complaints. "But if you're really serious, read chapters one through six, and make notes on anything you _don't_ understand. I can help fill in the gaps."

"Seriously?" His tone was cautious. "Just like that?"

"I've seen you in Potions, Harry. And believe it or not, I'm not exactly giddy listening to Snape rip you apart like that, much less play fast and loose with the safety of other students."

"You'd be the first," was his subdued remark. "So, ah… thanks."

She shook her head. "For real, Harry," she cautioned. "Next time, if you don't know what to do, just leave. I know he doesn't encourage it, but it's better if you leave the classroom and spend your time being prepared for the next lesson. Snape gets angry because Potions can be dangerous. And when his hand is forced, he ends up doing stupid things, like daring Gryffindors to test their mettle while somehow pretending as if he has no idea that they'll fall for it. I don't want that to happen to Granger again."

"Right." He looked troubled.

"Right," she echoed, stuffing the letter into her robe pocket. "When do you have a free period? I figure I should give you the weekend to study."

"Before or after Charms," Harry told her. "And any afternoon I don't have Quidditch."

"Since we have Charms together, I suppose after is the safest bet. How does that sound?"

"Okay," he agreed readily enough.

"Okay," she mirrored once more, exhaling.

The two of them stared at one another and then took turns gawking at the silence that occupied the room with them - waiting, impatient. Harry seemed to only be able to endure the pressure of it for a minute more. There was an expectant politeness to him, his gaze fumbling with a cordiality that he was observing for what, she assumed, was make-up for his faux-pas a few days past.

It was only when he realized that she wasn't going anywhere that he finally decided that it would be alright for him to go. His farewell rushed out of him, so brusque and quiet that she hadn't caught it.

But the sentiment remained with her, awkward and lonely. Regretful. Or maybe just unsure.

She twisted her lips, staring at the gloomily slacked mouth of her bookbag. Hm.

That was all rather silly of her, wasn't it? She was never going to get that textbook back.

Cleo scratched the side of her neck, frowning. _Sorry dad._

••••••••••

She didn't feel up to braving the troublesome energy that remained in the greenhouse she and the boy had occupied a day prior. Which was well enough, she supposed; it was a good time to be outside. The night had yielded a blustery rain, but the sky was presently clear, the sun warming her skin and drying dew from the grass.

Inconvenience aside, she found a nice spot on the path that led to that row of slumbering greenhouses. She hadn't exactly _decided_ if she was going to attend Herbology class that morning: That depended on _factors_. Like the letter clutched in her hand, and a handful of its rejected brothers and sisters lounging in an indecisive fairy ring about her feet. The latest attempt was the most promising. Or the least embarrassing.

 _Hey, Cal._

 _I'm an arsehole. I'm sorry. And… don't deny it. It's okay. I own it. I've been an arsehole. But, I'm going to do better, so there's that._

 _It's weird how two years have just sort of… happened? I know I contacted you after Gabriel was born, but the distance after that was inexcusable. (Again, really sorry.) Recovering in the hospital, waiting for Gabriel to get out of the NICU, then just… digging into motherhood was… distracting, to say in the least. But it's not really an excuse, is it? So, here's two years of catch up._

 _1\. I ended up finishing my Muggle schooling. I got my GCSE. Mum and Dad are very proud. Gabriel's opinion remains withheld (but I like to hope he's proud of Mummy)._

 _2\. I'm actually okay at the whole mum thing? I really dig it. Admittedly, it helps a lot having my parents' support. I would be pretty lost without them. But! Can I give myself some credit? I may not have the money thing going for me, but I'm good at the other stuff (I can change a diaper with my eyes closed and I've gotten really good at bedtime stories)._

 _3\. I've done that thing where after becoming a mother, all I do is talk about being a mum. Sorry._

 _4\. Speaking of, Gabriel's first word wasn't "Mama" or anything of the like (much to my slight disappointment) but "bug." He is now obsessed with them. It stresses me out. He is distressingly unafraid of spiders. I'm not certain how to feel and I'll have you know it's very difficult to smile encouragingly and say "yes, honey, that's very cute," when your two year old gleefully shoves an insect into your face._

 _5\. Oh, and he's very chatty. He's just learned you can string words together to have a conversation. His longest is a five word sentence ("Gammie drink big red juice") but he really favors shouting two words at at time. Bug fly. More juice. Blue car. Mum look._

 _6\. I'm back at Hogwarts._

 _Yeah, not kidding. I'm kind of surprised myself. And lost. Too much has changed. Or maybe it just seems that way, I don't know. I didn't really understand how hard it would be until I got here and realized that all of you are gone? And it sucks? A lot? And everyone can tell something's up with me. They're not wrong, either. I'm nearing twenty and I look it and suddenly everyone under eighteen seems like a baby._

 _I'm complaining and it's annoying. Sorry._ _More positively, I have a plan. Or, I'm trying to have a plan. It's like me to make things unnecessarily difficult for myself, yeah? So it's only appropriate that I choose the one professor in school who hasn't taken on anyone to advise in like, a bloody century. You know how Snape is. And of course, I'm apparently so disorganized that he won't considering advising me until I can produce a proper proposal for my - I don't really know what to call it in wizarding terms. Senior project? The thing I want to focus on so that when I graduate, I have some mode of specialization, and can work on getting an apprenticeship somewhere._

 _Ugh. I keep complaining. And rambling. Can you tell I don't have many people to talk to? I miss you. I miss you a lot Cal and I wish we could go to Honeydukes and you could tell me about tuberculosis and shoveling dung (from what?) and "doing it for science" (can I borrow that book? I think Gabe would like it)._

 _I hope we can see each other soon. Maybe you could come during one of the Hogsmeade visits? I'd really love it._

 _Please contact me soon, Cal. Let's never do this whole "not talking forever" thing ever again (even though it's my fault and God did I mention I was really sorry about that?)._

 _So much love,_

 _Cleo_

By the time she finished the fifth or so read, she'd only just noticed a little body had plopped itself down beside her, head perched beside her arm.

"You're not an arsehole," Thea objected, frowning slightly.

Cleo's head tilted in her direction as she folded the letter in on itself. "Don't say that," she admonished. "I don't want to get an angry phone call from your Mums accusing me of teaching you bad language."

Thea giggled. "As if I'd rat on you," she countered, drawing her knees up to her chest. "Besides, I've heard worse."

"That's not much better," Cleo murmured, tilting her head.

"Yeah well," the girl scrunched up her nose. "S'not like you can order me 'round, anyway?"

Cleo smirked. "No?"

"You've got that mumly thing going for you," Thea admitted. "But I know you're not that _lame_."

Cleo glanced back down to the parchment in her hands. "Try me."

"Pass."

A smile crept on to Cleo features, before she caught another glimpse of the girl, suddenly nonplussed. "What time is it?" she asked, her head turning, absent-minded, to glance down at her wrist. A wrist, she belatedly realized, was bare. Grimacing, she smoothed the gesture over by turning in Thea's direction, questioning: "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

She shrugged. "Snape let out early," she explained. "Some _idiot_ didn't time the addition of their Horklump juice correctly to their Herbicide potion and the entire thing got all _noxious_."

Cleo straightened, her mouth slinking down into a frown. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," Thea brushed off, her wiry curls bouncing as she nodded. "Snape got the whole class out before it spread. Gave the girl an _earful_ about how he was going to have to fumigate the entire lab and how she nearly killed _everyone_."

Well, that was an exaggeration. Certainly it'd make people _sick_ for a while, but- "I imagine she learned her lesson, then."

Thea hummed, unenthused. "Yep."

Cleo raised her hand, smoothing a few errant curlicues from the girl's face. "Well, glad to hear you're safe."

"You sound like my _mum_ ," Thea droned, rolling her eyes. Then, with a frown, she leaned away. "You don't have to get touchy with me."

Cleo's fingers reflexively curled in on themselves and she drew her hand away. "You're right," she conceded. "I'm sorry. I should've asked first."

"S'fine," Thea replied, brow furrowing.

"Good on you," Cleo praised. "Setting boundaries is healthy."

Thea dodged the compliment in a way that felt familiar to Cleo, dismissing her with a soft: "Well, who's the letter for, anyway?"

"My friend, Cal."

"The one who contacted you the other day?" Thea asked. "So it was nice?"

"It was very nice," Cleo admitted, sheepish.

"So nothin' worth being all skittish about."

Cleo raised an eyebrow.

"You're not hard to read," the girl added, grinning. "No offense."

Cleo waved a hand. "None taken."

"Well, that's nice. What'd he ask about?"

"Nosy, aren't you?"

"Maybe," Thea wheedled, feigning innocence. "I'd say interested."

"He just wanted to know what I'd been up to," Cleo told her, crossing her legs. "Asking if we could meet up soon. So I told him one of the Hogsmeade weekends would do fine."

"You must be excited," Thea prompted, staring down at her own feet.

"I kind of am, yeah," Cleo mused before gracing the girl with a smile. "What about you, though? How're classes going?"

The young Slytherin shrugged. "Y'know, it's alright. Astronomy is the only enjoyable thing, really. I'm not much for Charms and Transfiguration, Potions is _fine_ , I suppose, and Defense is just… Defense." She twisted her lips. "Herbology's okay, too. Professor Sprout's a nice lady. She's been getting us to do _Incendio_ to ward off more dangerous plants, but mine gets pretty wild."

Cleo laughed softly.

"Glad it's funny to you," Thea sneered.

"No, nothing like that," Cleo assured her. "Just... nostalgic. I remember having trouble with that, too."

"You did?"

"What, you think I just burst forth into Hogwarts, naturally gifted? Hardly."

Thea looked at her, intrigued. "How'd you… y'know, fix it?"

Cleo let out a soft, pensive hum. "Well, comes down to setting intentions, I think."

"Huh?"

Cleo rolled her neck in the girl's direction. "Something my mother taught me."

"Thought your mum was a Muggle."

"She is," Cleo confirmed. "She's just… different."

"What's it mean, though?" Thea asked, canting her head. "Setting intentions?"

"Well," Cleo hemmed, leaning back against the front steps. "It's just… deciding something, and then using your will to manifest it."

Thea's brows drew together, confused. "That just sounds like magic."

"Exactly."

"You said this was something your mum taught you," Thea reiterated, lost. "How does a Muggle do magic?"

 _Not effectively_ , Cleo felt herself thinking before she grimaced. Her mother would have her _head_ for that. "In their own way."

"So your mum-"

"My mum is religious," she clarified. "Or, I guess, spiritual."

"What religion is _that?_ "

"Wicca," Cleo supplied, breezy. "So my mother is a witch… in a Muggle way."

"Never heard of anything like _that_ ," Thea giggled. "Must've been funny when you found out you were… a _witch_ witch."

Funny wasn't the word for it. But Cleo didn't want to think about that.

"Yes, well," Cleo smoothed over, glancing to her knees. "Even though my mum does a different sort of magic, there were things she taught me that helped _here_ , too."

Thea looked skeptical, but she leaned toward the older girl, curiosity piqued. "Well… how do you mean?"

Cleo thought a moment before she bent forward and asked: "So, when you cast a spell… how do you do it?"

Thea blinked. "What d'you mean…? I just, uh - I say the magic word, and it sorta happens."

"Okay," Cleo responded, nodding. "How does it feel?"

"I dunno," Thea murmured, her head tossing skyward. "Sort of like… Warm, I guess? Flowy, too. Like I can feel my blood, or something, and it kind of rushes out."

"Right," Cleo remarked, clasping her hands together as she leaned her arms against her knees. "Do you see anything?"

"Like, what? When the spell goes off?"

"No, more like… In your head. Do you imagine anything happening?"

"Oh," Thea uttered. "Not… really. I don't really imagine much at all."

Cleo glanced down, her fingers tensing on one another, before they separated and she reached into her robe pocket. She withdrew her wand with a small swirl, the point dipping toward the ground. The sound of her whispered _Incendio_ was overtaken by a sudden _whoosh_ as a burst of flame burgeoned from her wand and collected at her feet, coalescing into a flared sphere which glided gently down the rocky path before them. It gradually unraveled, blooming outward and spiraling in lazy, measured tendrils. As it moved, it left elegant, swooping scorch marks on the stones, before the flame petered out, dissolving into smoke.

"Whoa," Thea gasped, her eyes glued to the path. "How'd you do that?"

"I _thought_ of doing it," Cleo answered.

Thea frowned, no more enlightened by that statement.

Another tact, then. "For me, it made things easier when I framed doing magic as something that wasn't simply a _result_ of instruction, but rather something I _intended_. I'd set my intention to something specific: _Make fire_. And I'd use my magic to make my intention manifest. The magic word wasn't the _instruction_ \- it was the _conduit_. And… it made it easier to control."

Thea's forehead wrinkled as she squinted, her lips twitching downward, doubtful. "I don't think I can do that."

"Bet you can," Cleo challenged, smirking.

"What do you bet?" Thea shot back, eyebrow raising.

"Hm. How about… if you can't make a small, controlled _Incendio_ … I'll buy you a month's worth of candy from Honeyduke's-"

"Can't bribe me with sweets, I'm _not_ a kid," Thea drawled, unimpressed.

"- _and_ , I'll write your next four essays. Any class."

"Well, that's a bit more like it," Thea considered, a bit more agreeable. "Alright. You're on."

The girl sat up, producing her own wand from her book bag. She placed herself in a stance before hesitating, tossing her gaze haphazardly in Cleo's direction. "So… how do I… do it?"

"Alright, first," Cleo instructed, leaning her chin into her hand, eyes glued to the girl's posture. "I want you to visualize something. Might be better if you close your eyes."

Thea acquiesced quickly, her eyes clamping shut as she kept her wand hand poised in the air.

"Can't see anything, right?"

"No," Thea giggled. "Just dark."

"Well, I want you to imagine that darkness _all_ around you, as if you're trapped somewhere you'd rather not be. And in the pitch, you can see a small ball forming, gradual, no bigger than the size of your fist. A ball made of flame, glowing, warm, tearing through the dark. Can you see it?"

"Yeah," Thea replied, leisurely. "Coming from my wand. Lighting up my hand."

"Good. Now…"

Cleo leaned closer, hesitating as she went to grasp Thea's hand. "Is it okay if I hold your wand arm?"

Thea's curls bounced as she nodded, her eyes still shut tight.

Cleo grasped her wrist, steadying it in the air. "Still see the flame?"

"I do," she remarked, her face set in concentration. "Just hovering there."

"Okay, now… I want you to _want_ it. I want you to dig deep inside yourself; I want you to feel your magic as you described - warm, like a blood flow - and I want you to wish you could make this happen, _right now_. When you feel it, just say the word, like it's yours."

For a while, the girl didn't move, the silence seeming to encompass them both. In that moment, it was the two of them, drawn into the silence of their focus; the world was centered here. The girl's breathing was slow and deep, and when Cleo felt the girl's arms tense up, she glanced to the tip of Thea's wand.

Cleo's hand moved with the flick of Thea's wrist as the girl uttered an acute but stern: " _Incendio_."

Thea's brow wrinkled in what seemed like embarrassment, her entire form jolting back and bumping into Cleo's. "Wait - whoops, I didn't do the wand movement right-"

"That's okay," Cleo promised her. "It doesn't matter. Just do what feels natural."

"But Professor Sprout said that you have to make sure your swipe is sharp, otherwise-"

"Otherwise what?" Cleo laughed. "It'll turn into water?"

"Well, no. It just won't-"

"Focus," Cleo chastised her, tapping the side of her forearm. "And trust me a little, please."

"Fine," Thea agreed, albeit a bit petulantly, though her eyes remained wired shut. "But I'm doing the wand movement correctly this time."

"Whatever you like," Cleo grumbled, correcting the girl's posture. "Get back to where you were before, with the fire. Don't rush yourself."

It took another few protracted moments before she felt the same, familiar tensing in the girl's limbs. She followed the movement of her arm as the girl sliced the air, her voice ringing out with confidence: " _Incendio!_ "

"Open your eyes," Cleo whispered, lips splitting into a smile.

Her eyelids fluttered open and Cleo's hand slid to Thea's elbow to brace her as the girl's entire body dipped with the sudden thrum of shock. There, at the tip of her wand: A small cluster of fire hovered, steady and obedient, small fingers of flame lapping outward as it pulsed with energy.

It fizzled and faded slightly as Thea took in a sharp breath, losing concentration. "No way."

Cleo drew her hand away, allowing the girl to hold her own weight. "Way."

"I did it," Thea breathed, astonished.

"You did it."

"I did it?" Thea turned her head, the small twitch of her mouth betraying the beginnings of a grin.

"All by yourself," Cleo emphasized, holding her hands up.

"This is so…" Thea's voice faded as she went to stare at the ball of flame again, mesmerized. "But how do I…?"

"Just think of anything," Cleo told her, feeling a strange warmth shimmer through her own limbs, "and try to make it happen."

The girl's eyes darted to the floor and, within a second, her wand tip pointed down, the ball plummeting with it. It landed with a spectacular _thump_ before fizzling out, the smoke of it curling up around Thea's legs.

"Whoops."

Cleo chuckled softly. "What'd you try to do?"

"Make it bounce," the girl explained, disheartened.

"It takes a bit of practice," Cleo promised. "You did better than me on my first run, anyway. I was barely able to keep a _Lumos_ lit for a minute. You'll get there, the more you try."

"Right," Thea responded, her voice distant, stare still trained on the tip of her wand. "That was… I really didn't think I could do that."

Cleo leaned against her hand, smirking. "Sorry about the homework. And the sweets."

Thea's response was a laugh that cut itself short, focus clearly lingering on the memory of what she'd accomplished. Cleo observed as the girl's shoulders drooped in hesitation, before Thea turned to look at her. "Cleo?"

"Yeah?"

"Could we…" Thea paused and a sense of wonder seeped into the girl's eyes, her fingers tightening on the hilt of her wand. She smiled this time, more earnest. "Could you show me how to do it again?"

••••••••••

In time, they had managed that bounce. Probably would have mastered another trick, if Cleo wasn't expected elsewhere.

Somewhere important.

Dumbledore's office was quiet and cozy, full of plush chairs and odd little contraptions. Still, every month when she arrived, Cleo was struck by a pervasive discomfort, a sense that even though she was expected, she wasn't exactly _welcome_.

Who was she kidding, though? _Hyperbole_ , she reminded herself.

They went through the same routine. His courteous greeting. Her sheepish reply. His prompting. Her occupying the space she had only a few times before: A chair and desk he conjured for just this purpose, cordoned off into the corner of his office space, where a solitary mirror sat, patient.

He would pass his hand over in the same practiced way and then stroll to where his desk stood, to whatever work he distracted himself with to give Cleo the illusion of privacy she wished she could _actually_ have.

She waited as the glass turned opaque, as if frost glided across the surface, before each blurry streak faded and cleared, piecemeal. And in the clear glass, she beheld two brilliant blue eyes, hovering just above a damp nose and lopsided grin.

He looked offset by the angle of the glass as he, no doubt, held it as close to his face as possible.

But soon, that voice - that beautiful, lilting, saccharine soprano - filled the space around her, making her shoulders roll up on an instinct so primordial and bone deep she felt herself ache. "Mama, mama, mama, mama, mama-"

He was singing it, grinning into the glass as if it were a toy.

A wave of emotion crashed over her, forcing her to lurch forward, hands reaching for something that wasn't there. "Hey, Bedbug," the words oozed from her, breathless, so infused with emotion that it sounded like a whimper. "Hi. Can you hear me? Can you hear me sweetheart?"

"Hi, Mama."

Her fingers gripped air. "Hi, Gabriel."

The image shifted: All at once, he was pulled away from the mirror as it lifted and adjusted itself, settling moments later on a bigger picture. Her mother and father huddled into the frame, Gabriel now seated on his lap as her mum waved his hand for him.

It took everything in her not to burst into tears.

"Happy birthday!" they shouted together, grinning.

"What?" Cleo asked, swallowing back another hard crash of emotion. "That's not for another few days, yet-"

"We know," her father answered. "But we didn't know if we'd be talking to you then, so might as well now, eh? We're getting help with the owl to send you a present on the proper day."

"You don't have to, really-"

"Oh don't you even start, Clytemnestra!" her mother bleated, frowning. "You're not too old for birthdays yet, you know. Besides, Bedbug made something nice for you. Didn't he?"

She glanced down at the boy as he was busy playing with his own fingers. His acknowledgement was a soft hum, followed by a giggle as he looked up again, this time leaning forward to grab the mirror again.

"Something nice he made at nursery school," she added, intercepting his hand and giving his knuckles a few quick kisses. Gabriel squealed with delight.

"How is that going?" Cleo asked, leaning toward the mirror in earnest.

"Good, really good," her father fielded. "The nursery aides still think he's a charmer, though we had a story last week of him bringing worms into the classroom after lunch-"

Gabriel ducked into his own hands as if he were hiding, but his grin showed just under his fingers.

"- but otherwise he's a very good boy. Learning a lot, aren't you? Making good friends. Before you know it, he'll be starting Primary school and then before you know _that_ , it's uni-"

On impulse, Cleo's eyes shut as she shook her head. She could hear her mother crooning, "Oh no, not yet. You're just gonna stay a little monster forever, aren't you? Forever and ever and ever and-"

Gabriel squealed loudly as her mother bent down, digging and tickling her fingers into his sides.

What she wouldn't give to be doing the same. Her eyes opened against their better judgment and she watched with a bittersweet joy as Gabriel leaned back against his grandfather's chest, cheeks red and with a smile so big it folded his face.

"But he's doing okay?" she asked, her hand gripping the edge of the mirror.

"He gets fussy sometimes, especially at night. But otherwise he's doing alright. He misses you awfully."

"I miss you too, Bedbug."

"Hi, Mama," the two year old repeated with a bashful wave. "Where?"

"I'm at school, honey. Remember? Do you remember the name I told you?"

"Hogwash," the boy pronounced, seeming proud of himself. "Hoggywash."

"Hog _warts_ ," Cleo's mother corrected him. But he'd already started on a tirade of repeating the word, again and again, clearly pleased with how fun it felt to say.

She heard a soft chuckle behind her and her head snapped into the direction of its source; Dumbledore was leaning against one of the columns nearby, having completely given up on the decorum he seemed determined to keep previously. She looked back to the mirror.

"What else has been going on?" Cleo pressed, forcing her hands into her lap.

"Oh," her father uttered, as if he'd just remembered. "Well, Gabriel's pediatrician has been calling."

Her brow furrowed, tense. "Wait, why-"

"Oh, oh no!" he cut in, the deep bellow of his laugh rumbling from within the confines of the frame. "Nothing serious. It's just about his immunization. He's overdue."

"Yes, and we told them we wanted to defer to Gabie's mum before moving forward," her mother put in, combing her fingers through Gabriel's hair.

"Right," Cleo murmured, frowning. "I'm not sure with… after what happened last time-"

"Gammie says," Gabriel piped up, staring at Cleo intently. "Gammie says."

"What does Gammie say, sweetpea?" Cleo asked with a tender smile.

"Gammie say, Gammie… Gamme got-" he repeated, struggling with the syntax. It wasn't surprising - he liked to be in on conversations, even if the structures of his sentences often melded into one another, or disintegrated into babbling nonsense. It was always fun, though, to talk about nothing for hours.

She felt elated. It was embarrassing with an audience. "Did Gammie get something?"

"Shots," he said at once.

"Oh!" her mother laughed, waving a hand in front of her face. "I tried explaining to him what shots are and, well-"

"Gammie says shots," he repeated, his eyes glancing down into his hands again, as he picked at something she couldn't see. Her father reached down to pull them away from each other, and in a moment the little boy was enthralled with the coarse outline of his grandfather's hand, outstretching his palm and fingers against the older man's, where he still fit.

"Look," he said, glancing to his mum in earnest.

"I see it," Cleo replied in a small voice, feeling her fingers twitch.

"Can I get shots?" the boy asked.

"Maybe, I think Mama has to talk to some people first," she explained. "Last time you and I were at the doctors, something went bad. So Mama is going to make sure that can't happen again."

"Bad?" the little one questioned, seeming alarmed. "Like sick?"

"Yeah, Bedbug. Like sick."

"Oh," Gabriel murmured, though she wasn't sure he understood. It was hard to know.

"I'll call Dr. Ulrich," her mother cut in, "and let him know we're going to look at other options-"

"Don't put it like that," Cleo interjected, a little frantic. "That makes it sound like I'm refusing, or something…"

"What shall I say, then?" her mother asked, sounding put out.

"That I need to make some inquiries with his other doctors involving health concerns before I make the appointment."

"Alright then," her mother agreed readily enough, but she could sense the tension wound in the woman's frame. "Still, I don't see the harm in alternative options."

Cleo stared at her mother, incredulous. "A lot? What if he _needs_ his vaccines? It's tantamount to child abuse if I just outright _refuse_ -"

"It's _not_ child abuse, don't be dramatic," her mother objected, glowering.

As always, her father attempted to diffuse the situation, breezing in with a jovial: "Enough about us. What about you, Cleo? How's school going?"

Cleo was just about done with _that_ topic as well. "I'd rather not talk about that, if it's-"

Her mother snorted, derisive. Immediately, and in a manner that only could be described as practiced, her father turned toward her. "Go take a walk, Holly."

At once, she rose from her place on the floor and strolled out of frame. Gabriel's eyes were locked on her, even long after she'd exited the space.

Cleo rubbed the side of her face, exhausted. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," her father dismissed her.

"I didn't mean to set her off."

"She's sensitive today," he elucidated. "I think she believes you're being critical of _her_ parenting."

"How in the world-"

"Well, you didn't get vaccinated."

Cleo swiped her hand over her face. "How am I supposed to know that?"

"You're not," he told her, his voice turning stern for the first time. "You know that's not how this works."

He was right. It didn't make things less frustrating. But in a way, she suddenly felt like she _should_ be critical. "Why didn't I get vaccinated?"

"Does it matter?"

"Kind of, yeah," she shot back, frowning.

"It's not a decision I would've made," he admitted. "But your mother was very convinced on the matter. Had a _feeling_ about it. You know I can't budge her when she's got _instinct_ about something. And, well. She wasn't exactly wrong with you, was she?"

Maybe not, but…

"He might not be the same as me," Cleo argued, her gaze darting to her son.

"How likely do you think that is?"

It wasn't likely at all, but it didn't stop her from hoping. "I don't know."

"Well, I don't know either," her father said with a laugh. "This is all rather new for me. But, hey. Why don't I ask some other witches when your mother and I go to group this weekend?"

It was smart. And his unrelenting means of being so… bloody reasonable made it hard to be annoyed. Her shoulders dropped and she glanced toward the ceiling, catching a glimpse of the brass contraption above - some garish decor Dumbledore must have found charming, she assumed - swirling and turning in on itself of its own volition. "That's probably a good idea."

"I'm best at those!" he exclaimed. "Aren't I, Bedbug?"

When she glanced down, her son and her father were staring up at one another, grinning from ear to ear.

"You and mum are still going to group?" It felt like a good idea to change the subject.

"Every week," he said, looking up at her again. "Your mother enjoys it a lot. Has it in her head now that she's possibly a-" He stopped mid-sentence, his lips puckering as if trying to grasp at a memory that was fading from him. "Well, I don't remember what they called it. A non-magical person born to magical parents? And I can't really argue with her, can I? Everything's possible at this point."

"Mm," Cleo hummed, noncommittal, before sighing. "Well, I'm glad it's going well."

"Last weekend there was some awful news about a family in the Cardiff chapter. Poor girl that went missing. We were asked to keep our eyes out, but, y'know."

Considering how much her father watched those bloody cop shows, she knew exactly what he was insinuating. But she didn't want to think about that. Too grim. "That's sad."

"Sure is," he agreed. "But, enough about that. You really don't want to talk about school?"

"I don't, Dad," she insisted.

"That bad, huh?"

Cleo leaned her head against her shoulder. "Coming back has been difficult, is all. I'll deal with it."

"Well, I think I may have some good news for you. If you wait a sec-"

He rose from his seat, gingerly placing Gabriel on the floor. "Stay and talk with your Mama, okay? Papa will be right back."

The scene appeared a bit clearer now, with less bodies to take up the space. Gabriel was still seated in the middle of the floor, of course, but other items began manifesting around him, like the shag carpet that cradled his legs, a few canvas stands, a potted plant, some sconces for incense-

Cleo looked at her son. "Are you in Gammie's room?"

"Uh huh," the boy replied, glancing behind him.

She squinted, suspicious. "Is the mirror on Gammie's altar?"

"Uh huh."

Figures.

"She got it all decorated for Samhain?"

Gabriel's entire body lurched into a nod.

"Any pumpkins?"

"Yeah," he said, a smile creeping onto his features again. Cleo's heart swelled.

"Did you pick them out with Gammie?"

"Uh huh."

She felt the urge for her expression to sour. She wished she could've gone. But it was ridiculous, wasn't it, to get jealous? Over something so silly?

"No lit candles right now though, right?"

"Nope."

It felt weird, talking with him, almost as if he were there in the room with her, but with enough distance that she felt the sting of being unable to hold him. It hurt. It was stupid, how much it bloody hurt. "You know why, right?"

"Fire's bad," he recited, leaning forward again, almost as if he wanted to touch the mirror once more.

"That's right," she affirmed. "I don't want you playing around Gammie's altar, not without her watching."

Suddenly, a voice blossomed from the right of the frame. "Who's playing with my altar?"

Gabriel broke into a fit of giggles. Seconds later, Cleo could see her mother's legs waltzing into the picture once more, as she picked up the boy by his armpits and settled herself on the ground, placing him in her lap.

Cleo tilted her head. "You put the mirror on your altar?"

"Oh, Clytemnestra, _don't_ ," she begged. "Trust me. It harmonizes the space. I wish I could show you. It has such a positive energy to it. When you come home, you'll see."

"Okay," Cleo conceded, shoulders rolling back.

"I won't scry with it or anything," Holly promised, playing with Gabriel's hands. "I've another mirror for that."

"I believe you."

She grinned at Cleo. "I know you don't mean to be so fussy. Samhain was always a very dark time for you. It makes sense, considering. Scorpios are incredibly intuitive like that. You feel the coming of Midwinter long before any of us."

Her mood had nothing to do with that, but there wasn't any use arguing such a thing with her mother.

Holly grasped something from the top of the frame, pulling it into sight. "Got my red candle all ready, just for you. I'll set my intentions for peace and clarity."

"Thanks, Mum."

"Of course, darling," she murmured, leaning upward to set the candle back into its proper place. "Where'd your father go?"

"I don't know," Cleo admitted. "He went to get something."

Holly leaned back, glancing toward the door Cleo knew was off frame. Probably slightly ajar, too, allowing their family portraits to peek in, curious. "Greg!" she called. "Greg, what are you doing?"

There was a muffled shout that Cleo couldn't make out, but when her mother leaned back toward her, she said: "He says he'll be back in a second."

Cleo nodded. "Just - I kind of don't know how long I have to talk to you guys. I have Potions in, like, twenty minutes-"

Holly laughed. "So casual. ' _I have Potions_ ' - Goddess above me, Clytemnestra, I'll never get used to that-"

"Got it!"

Greg reentered the picture, hands behind his back as he resumed his spot on the ground.

"I was just telling Mum about how I don't really have a lot of time to talk to you guys," Cleo reiterated. "So maybe just-"

"I'll be quick," Greg promised. "I was hoping this could be a bit more of a reveal but-" In a second, he pulled his hands from behind him, waving an envelope in front of the mirror.

"What's-?"

"Oh, come now. Have a guess. Who's going to be sending you post at this time of the year?"

Cleo's expression bunched up. "Wait, it's not-"

"Oh yes it is," Greg cut in, grinning. "Aberdeen."

Her stomach clenched. She wanted to sick up.

"Oh God," she sighed, glancing down.

"Oh God?" Greg questioned, a chuckle riding the back of his voice. "What's that about? Oh God?"

"Well I don't know what it says, do I?" Cleo shot back, sounding dreadful.

"You're assuming it's bad!" Greg accused, somehow managing to keep the levity in his tone. "Come now, Cleo. Honey. Breathe a second, won't you? I said it was good news, didn't I?"

That about winded her just as bad as the dismay, but somewhere in the thick of her anxiety, she found the ability to speak. "I got in?"

"Of course you got in!" her father announced as if this were a forgone conclusion. Her mother cheered, clapping Gabriel's hands together, as the boy squealed in the excitement, happy to be included.

"I… got in," Cleo repeated, staring, bewildered, into her family's elated faces. "For real?"

"For real," Greg promised. "Congratulations, sweetie."

She should've screamed, leapt in excitement. Been _happy_. Anything. But for one reason or another, all she could feel was… She didn't know. But it lied somewhere in between trepidation and pressure; it built, steadily, in the pit of her stomach, climbing higher until she felt almost as if she'd pass out.

"Aren't you excited?" Holly prompted her.

"Of course I am," Cleo lied, forcing a smile. "It's just- hard to believe."

"Well, believe it, kiddo. You did it. I'm really proud of you," Greg added, his smile a small crease in his face.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Step one completed, yeah?" he said and her heart jumped into her throat. He waved the envelope again. "I'll keep this safe for you."

Step one… _God._ She was such a fucking failure.

Cleo didn't realize how long she'd been staring in silence until she heard Holly calling for her: "Hello? Earth to Clytemnestra? You okay?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about something." Cleo shook her head.

Holly looked at Greg, sectarian. "She's got her head up all in _Potions_ class."

"As she very well should," Greg approved. "Always loved that about you, babygirl. Diligent. Should we let you go?"

"You might have to," Cleo replied, reluctant. Her eyes dropped to her son. "Bedbug?"

However, Gabriel was caught up in playing with his grandmother's autumn-themed shawls, draping them over the front of his face.

She smiled. "Gabriel?"

Holly pulled the sheer bit of cloth from him, bringing his attention back to the mirror.

"Mama has to go soon," Cleo broke the news to him, tender.

His eyes narrowed, confused.

"I have class very soon. But Mama will call you back when she's able, alright?"

These words, above all else, seemed to not only cause confusion, but distress. "Mama?" he called for her, his entire body bent toward the mirror. She felt that primeval instinct shoot up her spine; her hands held each other tightly in her lap.

"Sweetie?"

"Mama go?"

"Yes, honey. Only for a little while though."

His expression crumbled. "Coming home?"

"Not yet baby." Letting him down. Again. Her heart pummeled her ribcage. "I'm sorry. Soon. I promise."

She could see it, the pools forming just under his eyes. His cheeks were puffy and his lip jutted out, just barely holding back a grief he couldn't quite understand. "Why?"

Was there a reason? Staring at him like this, it didn't feel as if there were any good ones. "Because I just have to be here right now, Bedbug."

Such a lame excuse. _Because I said so_. So much more for, "I'll never be the mum who says that. Or does this." How many more promises would she break in the duration of being a mother? How many times would she be something she vowed she wouldn't?

Gabriel looked between his grandparents, searching for clarity. His breathing grew staccato and, before anyone knew it, the tears started coming, accompanied by the sound of Holly's cooing as she picked him up and began to pace the room with him.

"Don't worry about that," Greg assured her, picking up on her distress. "He'll be right as rain in a little while. They don't call it the Terrible Twos for nothing."

"But-"

"But nothing," Greg shot through that line of thought, a little more stern than she was used to. "You have to be there. Don't worry about the homefront. Your mother and I have this."

"You shouldn't have to," she whispered.

"Stop that," he ordered. "Just keep your head at school. Just two short years, and it's smooth sailing."

 _Smooth sailing._ How did he have such perfect faith? He had _no_ idea.

The guilt of that had her trying to confess. "Dad, about that actually, I need to talk about-"

"Later," he interrupted her, glancing behind him, the sound of Gabriel's tantrum mounting. "Promise. Go to class, babygirl. We love you and believe in you."

"I-" She stopped, observing the assuredness of his expression. The stalwart confidence. She suddenly felt afraid.

A pair of legs arrived beside her and she glanced down into her lap. "I love you too."

The sound of Gabriel's screams faded gradually, seeming to stretch outward into her periphery, until overtaken by the natural ambiance of the Headmaster's office. The man in question righted himself, after having swiped his hand over the mirror. When she looked up, her reflection faced her squarely. The sight of it made her feel such shame and revulsion that she turned away, sucking in a breath.

"Miss Croft?"

A heaviness bore down on her chest, constricting it. It made it difficult to breathe, much less speak. When she could, she couldn't manage anything more than a pathetic mewl: "I need a second."

"As you wish." The man receded, moving to stand by the fire.

The 'second' wasn't much help. She could likely sit there for an eternity, struggling against the inevitable. Either way, only seconds after the Headmaster had settled himself in front of his mantel, a sob strained her throat, her hand only barely able to catch it as she pressed it hard against her mouth.

She could still hear it, even long after it had gone… The sound of Gabriel's cries were tattooed within her memory - from the very first moment she held him, to the present where she cradled her arms against her chest, so cold and empty.

A pink handkerchief appeared in front of her, floating of its own accord, within arm's reach. The Headmaster hadn't moved from his spot, but the offering was clearly from him.

It took her a moment to snatch it from the air, but the gesture was enough to instill her with humility. "Sorry," she whimpered, dabbing the kerchief under her eyes.

"Nothing at all to be sorry for, my dear," the old man assured her, voice gentle. "I am… I feel certain you must miss them very much."

"And here I thought I was being subtle," she joked in some pathetic attempt to stave off the humiliation.

"It is nothing to be ashamed of," Dumbledore commented, turning in her direction. "Your ability to cherish family is, in many ways, admirable."

He said that as if it was something unexpected of her. Or, whatever. Maybe she was just misunderstanding… "I appreciate it," she said, sniffing hard as she wiped more tears from her eyes.

Dumbledore was momentarily quiet. "Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Croft?"

"No," she answered quickly, forcing herself to stand. "I'm sorry. I should…" Her sentence died as she began to collect her things.

He seemed surprised, his eyebrows climbing upward as he commented, "There is no need to rush yourself-"

"If I don't get out of your hair right now, I'll likely never make it to Potions," she rationalized, halfway across the space, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "And I don't know how that will help anyone."

She didn't search for his expression, nor did he say a word as she left, which was just as well. His kindly demeanor felt no more authentic than the distant image of her family had been.

 _Hyperbole_ or not.

••••••••••

In the end, it wasn't her grief that stopped her from attending Potions... Just the entirety of Slytherin House.

Or, enough congregated to _look_ about that size. She wasn't the only person obstructed in the proceedings, either. A sizable amount of students, those who were attempting to pass through the Entrance Hall from both the stairs and from the Grounds, were halted by a cavalcade of bodies stood together in defiance, backs turned inward, arms locked together in a chain. Even more bodies stood in between the large circle, giving it strength. Making it tangible. Impossible to pass.

And one body in particular, outside the circle, was making rounds.

"... and do you think, for _one moment_ , that man would make such exemptions for us? Would he descend from his ivory tower for _our_ sake?"

A loud shout came from the crowd, in sync: "No!"

From beside her, a disgruntled Ravenclaw bellowed: "Get off it, Urquhart! Let us through!"

A familiar voice approached her from behind. "What's going on?" She turned minutely, catching a glimpse of red and gold, round glasses, and messy hair.

She couldn't be certain. It wasn't like she often found herself in the thick of Slytherin's sour disposition, only aware of the rift it created in its wake. She was barely acquainted with the crowd's leader, Rhys Urquhart, who was at the heart of _one_ faction of her House's discontent... But the unsettling familiarity of the scene had her speaking, automatic:

"A protest."

Harry leaned forward, eyes darting around the gathered crowd. "Of what?"

"I don't know."

A Hufflepuff girl at the bottom of the stairs, in clear distress, was on the tips of her toes, staring over the group of bodies to the doors that laid beyond. "Come on! I have a test in Herbology!"

"Not until we get what we came for!" Rhys's commanding voice wafting over the crowd, deep and resonating and full of conviction. "What we _deserve!_ "

"Equal treatment!" a couple of girls in the circle screamed.

"An end to discrimination!" a few boys added.

In the middle, the loudest voice, a young woman belted: "Justice for Montague!"

This riled the entire block of students up, who began to chant this phrase in earnest: "Justice for Montague!"

Over the din, Harry saw fit to ask, "Are these all Slytherins?"

"Who else would they be?" Some Gryffindor she didn't recognize answered him, just over her shoulder. Cleo drew herself inward, nervous.

Rhys had made his way toward the stairs, the chanting carrying him in confidence. "Dumbledore _must_ answer for the mistreatment of Graham Montague!" he pointed his accusation upward, arm raised and balled in a fist. "He _must_ answer. He will not _rest_ until we get recourse! We will break down this castle, brick and mortar, until he is _forced_ down and he gives us-!"

The crowd filled in the word for him, climbing high over his shoulders, standing loud and proud before the people that filled the stairs: "Justice!"

"Who gives a shrivelfig about bloody Montague?" a voice yelled from the entrance to the grounds, derisive. "Get out of the bleeding way!"

"Who cares about Montague?" Rhys challenged, turning his back to the stairs to face the person who spoke. "You can _see_ who cares about Montague! Who cares about Montague… Why don't you tell that to his parents? His friends? His _fiancée_? You ask _them_ who cares for Montague!"

Harry sounded off an exasperated sigh, raising his voice for the first time. "What's wrong with him? Y'know, aside from his horrid personality," he demanded, arms crossed.

Urquhart turned back toward the stairs, seemingly amused not so much by what was _said_ but rather _who_ said it. Effortlessly, his voice climbed upward, even though he spoke in a lower register than his previous proclamations. "You ask your friend _Weasley_ what happened to Montague, Potter," he mocked, head canted, "that is, if you can force yourself to care for those you deem _undesirable_."

The Gryffindor's eyebrows drew downward, but he did not muster his faculties quickly enough to respond before Rhys turned back toward the crowd.

" _Undesirable_ ," he repeated, his voice blooming from the epicenter of the crowd as they parted, fluid, to allow him to stand in their midst, towering above the deluge of bodies, commanding everyone's attention. "Because that's what we are, aren't we? To Potter and his lot? To _Dumbledore_ and his?"

A steady beat of voices rang out in agreement, sharp eyes keened in a dangerous glare to the boy just over her shoulder. Harry's arms dropped to his sides, fists clenching.

"Slytherins - _scheming_ , _conniving, ruthless_ \- minds ready and willing to be plucked by the Dark Lord?" Rhys recited, his head turning to look at every person that gathered around them. "Nevermind those among us who they, themselves, are born of Muggle heritage. Nevermind those of us who would eagerly accept and stand by them, who would protect and defend them! We are nothing but Death Eaters in wait, are we not?!

" _That's_ what calls for the interrogations," he accused, incensed. "The conditional re-acceptance into this institution! The stricter curfews! Fewer allowances for Quidditch, for trips to Hogsmeade! The unrelenting, unmitigated _bias_ \- the utter _lack_ of clemency that would otherwise be allowed to students of _acceptable_ Houses-"

She would never know or understand _how_ , during all this, Rhys's eyes managed to hone in on her exact position. Perhaps on a grand sweep to stick his point to Harry, he had miscalculated and found her in their midst. All she knew was that in the next moment, the crowd parted again and Rhys was making his way to her, pushing past the dissenting bodies as if they were _nothing_ and grasping her wrist with such force it made her gasp aloud.

Seconds later she was careening down the stairs, dragged right behind him, until she was walked to the middle of the Slytherin crowd, her arm held aloft and high in the air as he yelled: "Would _Harry Potter_ have been treated the same as _Cleo Croft?_ " he asked, and she heard the voices around her rumbling, uneven, but all in agreement: "No!"

"Would _Harry Potter_ have lost Gryffindor all their points for a single act of defiance?"

Louder this time, more in sync: "No!"

"Or would he have been _rewarded_ , not for his _actions_ , but for the sake of Dumbledore's _favoritism?_ "

 _That_ felt familiar. She disliked how easily she was tokenized, but she _could_ remember the rage she, too, felt in her third year when Slytherin's win of the House Cup was stolen away from them and given to Gryffindor, and so _arbitrarily_. Last minute points for "bravery", the prevailing trait of the whole of their House. As if that trait was inherently worth more than all the others.

The incident had lost its sting as the years went on, as other things took precedent, but…

She almost felt swept up in it, somehow. She glanced up toward Harry.

"Would _Cleo Croft_ have been regarded as a _hero_ for conquering the Chamber of Secrets, or would she have been _framed_ as its master? Would _Cleo Croft_ have been _allowed_ to reign as Hogwarts's second Tri-Wizard champion, or would Dumbledore have made an example of her- sowing fear in the heart of any Slytherin who dared oppose him? Would _Cleo Croft_ have been allowed to create a secret group in _direct opposition_ to Ministry officials or would she have been left to the _wolves_ for being a Slytherin who _dared_ to congregate?!"

Her eyes caught on Harry in the crowd: his jaw set, brow furrowed, hands wound tight around the strap of his bag. What was he thinking? Was he angry to hear all this, or merely upset to be attacked? She didn't know him well enough to tell, but the fact that he didn't have a retort was telling.

"Would _Cleo Croft_ be rewarded for such flagrant disregard for the rules, or would she be _punished_ , for nothing more than the circumstances of her _sorting,_ as much as you believe those of _us_ would punish her for the circumstances of her _birth?_ "

A girl beside her grasped her free hand, squeezing tight. When Cleo looked down, she recognized her within an instant: Jodie, smiling encouragingly, her stature just barely allowing her to not be encapsulated in the waves of older students that surrounded her. Her voice rose up above her first: " _Justice_ for Cleo Croft!" Jodie's head turned to the crowd that stood in defiance of them and she shouted again: "Justice for Slytherin!"

It wasn't long before other voices joined in, chanting the same refrain: " _Justice for Cleo Croft! Justice for Slytherin!_ "

It shouldn't have, it really shouldn't have, but… Somewhere, deep down in her heart, she felt a lightness. Never, in all her years at Hogwarts, had her House been so _supportive_. Up until then, living in her House had been like navigating a battlefield; a game of understanding what elements were dangerous - life threatening, even. But to have a faction of Slytherin crowded around her, unified in purpose, and with the unflinching, unrepentant acceptance of who she was…?

It was freeing. It lifted a burden she was so used to carrying, that the lightness of its absence made her feel lop-sided and gangly. It was a different picture than the House that she knew; the House that Professor Snape had spent time warning Muggleborns to hide themselves within.

Looking at Harry, and the faces of the disgruntled masses who were being disturbed as a result, she knew she shouldn't have felt so _bolstered_ by this, but...

A sudden, reverberating _crack_ sounded nearby, followed by another, and another. Everyone's heads swiveled toward the noise to find Draco Malfoy, sauntering forward with his hands in front of him. Lazily, he clapped his hands together, the sound amplified by magic and echoing off the stone walls of the Entrance Hall.

The first word out of his mouth was dripping with scorn. "Riveting. _Truly_."

The first response was from an older looking student at the front of the circle, sniping him with a withering: "Bugger off, Malfoy."

"You know, I _would_ , except, more's the pity-" He gestured theatrically to their grouping. "- it looks like you're in my way."

"Join the club, then," the student shot back, unsympathetic.

His chuckle was scornful to its core. "As if I could ever stoop low enough to associate with your pitiful little band of zealots."

"As if we'd actually want anything to do with _you_ ," he shot back. "You know what I meant, Malfoy."

"It's sad, really," the blonde continued, as if he hadn't heard a word. "The amount of effort you've put in for -" He paused, imperious gaze darting toward the middle of the crowd. "- Well, can't be certain. What, _exactly_ , have you accomplished, Urquhart?"

If Rhys seemed bothered by this jab, he didn't look it. The boy had the practiced composure of a politician and, with a soft smile, he humored Malfoy with a patient: "A just cause proves itself, Malfoy."

He smirked. "Ah, just as I thought. All platitudes and no _substance_."

Rhys glanced to Cleo as if prompting whether she had any input or interest in this conversation, a soft laugh escaping him. "I don't find it necessary to explain myself to a boy whose father currently resides in Azkaban."

A few laughs rang from the students surrounding her, punctuated by the low thrum of voices that rang from the crowd just behind Malfoy, discordant.

Malfoy's casual demeanor hardened, though his tone remained airy and trenchant. "Oh, _good one_. Very original. If you can handle a Quaffle even _half_ as well as you insult, Slytherin might stand a chance this year."

"I'd say that our chances have _vastly_ improved after your removal, actually," Rhys shot back, casual, turning to face Malfoy fully.

"Rather sharp talk coming from someone of such little import," Malfoy drawled, hands pushing into his pockets.

"Perhaps not in your circles, Malfoy," Rhys remarked. "And for that, I count myself grateful."

The smile Malfoy decided to carry right then was conceited. "My circles," he echoed, eyebrow raising. "I see, like my _father_ , yes? Well, since you seem to be so fond of the subject of _fathers_ , let's talk about yours."

Rhys excused himself from the circle, traversing the gap to Malfoy in what felt like only a few steps. "Listen, I understand how _hard_ it is to feel _this_ lonely," he mocked, offering Malfoy a magnanimous pat on the shoulder that the boy shook off with disgust, "but I'm not going to play your little game with you. It's beneath me. It's beneath _anyone_ , really."

As the blonde slanted his glare in his opponent's direction, he lifted his chin in some vain attempt to match Urquhart's impressive height. " _That's_ rich-"

"Don't make me explain again," Urquhart cut in placidly. "Run along, Malfoy."

There was a moment where Malfoy seemed frozen, cornered. A tension in his stance, an unease to his expression, a focused intent to his gaze, all infused with expectant potency. Wound tight. Bracing. Then, in a truly surreal fashion, when it seemed as if the boy could be no more taut, the whole of him _snapped_.

A flash of blue light crashed with a sizzling _boom_ against Rhys's hastily constructed shield. The second wands were drawn, the crowd recoiled, scattering from the epicenter of the clash. Cleo herself could only watch on in shock as students rushed past, some merely seeking a safer vantage point, while others fled the scene in search of teachers.

Hardly any of the protesting group broke ranks, though from the midst of them came a horrific scream, a small brunette squeezing past the crowd as her hand was held out in Rhys's direction. "Rhys! Darling! You can't-!"

Rhys, composed as ever, held up his free hand to halt her before he returned his gaze to Malfoy. "This isn't going to get you anywhere, Malfoy," he informed the boy, sounding oddly amused, considering the circumstances. "If you're itching for a fight, I'm just not the proper candidate."

Cleo could see the slight tilt to Malfoy's head, the strange energy from earlier having dissipated. In its stead, Malfoy stood before Rhys, wand still held aloft, looking almost… resigned. His tone, however, didn't match his demeanor. "Maybe so," he mused, head dipping down to watch as his other hand wriggled something free from his pocket. Cleo couldn't make it out, other than to distinguish its more obvious features - small, shiny, round…

Whatever it was, he rubbed his thumb over the surface of it, before addressing Rhys again: "But I'd wager in about-" he flipped the device open, glancing down at it once more, "five or so minutes, your little assembly will be broken up." The boy looked up again, an exaggerated frown pitching the corners of his lips down, taunting. "What a pity."

It was unsettling, the shift in Rhys's countenance: An unnatural, hideous metamorphosis that made the large boy appear truly _monstrous._ There was no hesitation about him and, in a horrific lurch forward, a bellow burgeoned from him, so violent it rumbled the very foundations of the castle.

Spell after spell after spell was launched at Malfoy, but- he took every blow. Perhaps Urquhart was too quick for him, the ruthlessness of his onslaught crumbling whatever counter Malfoy may have had, but he never _once_ raised his wand to defend himself. By the time the fifth or so spell had connected, Malfoy was heaped on the other side of the Entrance Hall, looking half dead.

A few from the Slytherin crowd were alarmed, their screams scattering into the fray, a mix of questions and pleas: _Rhys, what are you doing!? Stop! You're going to kill him! What's gotten into you?!_

But there was one shout, above all the others, that had the most palpable effect.

" _Seorso!_ "

It blundered from the doorway to the Grounds, careening into the tumult, not only immediately separating the two quarreling bodies, but every student surrounding, parting them effortlessly to opposite ends of the hall.

Cleo collided with a marble ornament perched on the barristers of the front steps, her arms wrapping the neck of a gryphon to keep herself from falling. When she looked up, she could see what everyone else was staring at, aghast:

Professor Tenenbaum, spindly little arms outstretched and hoisted to her left, the tiny trunk of her torso twisted as she stared at the convulsing body of Urquhart, struggling to break free of the bond that held him against the wall.

From her right, Professor McGonagall strolled up quickly, obscuring her. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her voice echoing in the large expanse with a familiar, angry waver.

No one answered. A few heads darted to Malfoy, still curled up on the floor. Was he even breathing?

McGonagall glided to him, her wand raised at her waist. It wasn't long before she was knelt at his side, a slew of cursory diagnostic spells traveling in a deluge from her mouth, ribbons of color cascading and hovering about his limp form.

The next series of events were so rushed that they bombarded into one another: the urgent flow of McGonagall's spellcasting uproariously interrupted by another scream from behind her; the sound of the brunette from earlier, desperately pleading: "Rhys, no!"; the harsh slap of the boy's feet as he pushed his way toward the unconscious Malfoy; the quick, clinical trill of McGonagall's voice, reverberating all around them; the ugly, fleshy _thump_ as Petrificus took hold, with Rhys falling to the floor, unnervingly inert.

In a moment, the brunette was draped on top of him, wailing. It was only then that Cleo was able to recognize her: The girl from the library. The one named Ann. Considering their previous rendezvous, it was a wonder that she was attending an event like this at all. But from her behavior alone, it seemed she cared for Urquhart a great deal.

The Slytherins standing in the periphery were clearly shaken - some even _furious_ \- but none of them foolhardy enough to even _think_ of approaching McGonagall, much less _address_ her.

It all happened so fast, it dawned on Cleo very belatedly to question _how_ Rhys had broken free in the first place - she wasn't alone in this, apparently, evidenced by the uneven, bewildered voices that had only just thought to acknowledge the other professor.

There was a shout from the left. "Professor Tenenbaum?"

She was slumped over in her wheelchair, breathing shallow and ragged. Even from the distance, Cleo could see the droop in her eyes, threatening to shut.

"Oh, Merlin! Professor McGonagall, something's wrong!"

The woman in question had risen from her place on the ground, herding the crowd with the authority of her voice alone. "Go to your classes, all of you. Immediately. Dawdlers will have points taken, or worse. _Go_."

The mob dispersed on command, lumbering in a wide berth around the bodies at the center of the circle. Cleo didn't move as quickly as the others: She saw McGonagall bend down over Ann's shoulder and say something she couldn't make out. Whatever it was, it bade the girl to rise and head in the direction of the stairs, her steps hastened by the threat of some promise that none else were privy to.

McGonagall had the two boys in a float behind her. From over the passing heads, Cleo watched as she approached Professor Tenenbaum's heaving form. They spoke, Professor Tenenbaum only seeming to barely keep conscious. Cleo's head ducked down when she saw Professor McGonagall look up again, to observe the march of students shuffling past them.

Cleo escaped into the dungeons and didn't allow herself to witness the rest.

••••••••••

It was fortunate that she heard from Cal on Saturday; she needed an escape from the somber atmosphere that had taken hold of the Common Room shortly after the _incident_.

Her boots crunched on iced-over snow littered with hundreds of mismatched footprints. Along the path, the unseasonal snow dusted every stone divider, every lamp-post, every pine needle. The chill wind sapped any warmth the sun might have offered, but its rays still garnished her path with frosty glitter.

Brighton was certainly no stranger to cold weather, but Cleo liked to walk to Hogsmeade on these days, when the unfettered drifts of snow were allowed to roam free and sprinkle the countryside. Snow seemed altogether more an adornment than an annoyance, here. When the town finally came into proper focus, and she passed by the homey facade of the Three Broomsticks, Cleo decided to wander for a bit longer. After all, it couldn't hurt.

Hogsmeade was busy, but not crowded. Outside of her yearly trips to Diagon Alley, she hadn't had much chance to observe wizards; their peculiar sense of style had always struck her as bizarre, but this day most everyone was bundled in thick robes and fur. Despite the biting cold, several merchant stalls boasted their wares. Bright, star-speckled awnings shielded their owners from the sun while they conversed and haggled at astonishing speed; Cleo could hardly even keep up with what they were saying, much less interject. Here and there were all kinds of strange objects that Cleo had never heard of: peppermint bark that the seller claimed was carved from an _actual_ peppermint tree; a wide array of toy wands which varied in color, size, and function; a collection of rocks and gemstones which were said to control the weather within a certain radius; and a selection of hundreds of miniature items, evidently intended as romantic gifts for lovers.

Intrigued, Cleo wandered closer to survey what was on offer. Spotting her, the merchant chimed in her direction, "Ah, Miss! Looking to impress with a Flourishing Favor? These wee trinkets are certain to swell along with your passions!"

She waved a hand, her smile contrite. "Ah, no, not for me, thank you-"

Then, within the next moment, a force like a strong wind careened into her, nearly bowling her over with its intensity. The only thing that kept her standing was the two gangly arms wrapped tightly around her middle, and the instant knowledge that they were _familiar_.

Giddy laughter blared directly in her ear. " _Clyde!_ "

Her arms crossed over her abdomen, tightly gripping the ones that held her, as she leaned back against his body. "You _idiot!_ " she joked, before twisting herself in his grip enough to embrace him fully. "I thought you'd finally given up on that Clyde nonsense!"

With an almighty "Ha! Never!", he lifted her off her feet with the force of his excitement. Then, a moment later, was obliged to admit, "Ouch, you're too much taller than me for that."

She shot him a look. "Well, at least you said _tall_."

He settled her back on the ground before letting go, holding her shoulders at arm's length. Caleb, rather than looking red and raw from the late-autumn chill, was instead the picture of joviality. His blue eyes alight with mirth, his flat, wispy brown hair peeking out from underneath his beanie, the haphazard clasp of his robe, strained by the vitality of his movements… He hadn't changed much at all. With a wide, brilliant smile, partially obscured by his knitted green scarf, he made an expansive gesture. "It's been a millenia, Cleo! You look _fantastic!_ "

Her hands reached up to pull the beanie down over his forehead. "I can't believe you're still wearing this old thing."

Cal's gloved hand reached up to his head instantly. "How do you mean 'old'?" he chuckled with a mischievous squint. "Did you gave me your grandad's hat, or what…?"

"I'm just surprised my mum's knitting lasted this long," she teased.

"Well, it's a touch frayed, I'll admit- on account of my wearing it pretty much every day."

"You do _not,_ " she laughed.

"What can I say? My head is very cold."

Her hands lowered to his cheeks, cradling them. "It's really nice seeing you, Cal."

He beamed at her before saying, "Well, if that's how you really feel, then see me more often!"

She glanced over her shoulder, body tensing inward against a shiver. "Should we head in somewhere, then? I didn't expect it to be so cold out."

"Let's," he agreed, dancing in place to ward off the chill. "The Warming Charm on this robe isn't what it used to be." Looping his arm with hers, Cal tried to regally march them through the gathered masses, but was instead pelted in the head by a dislodged chunk of snow.

"How 'bout that weather, huh?" she joked, grinning from ear to ear.

"Truly," he commiserated, brushing off his beanie. "It's not quite November, and yet here we are, looking like a winter wonderland. What's up with Scotland, anyway?"

"Like you care," she accused, smirking.

His shoulders rolled upwards, a smile curling his lips. "Caught me," he quipped. "But hey! I love a good blizzard when it means I don't have to go into work."

" _Blizzard_ ," she balked, nudging her shoulder into his. "In your dreams."

"They _are_ , actually!" Cal insisted, eyes bulging as he gestured with his looped arm. "My mind conjures all sorts of mysterious weather phenomena in the night, though all of them have the same purpose of rescuing me from my responsibilities."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, what are you thinking, anyway? I ate before coming but I wouldn't mind sitting in with you if you were hungry."

"I'm full up from this morning still," he commented. "Mum's doing. But I could kill for a cuppa."

"Three Broomsticks it is," she breathed, craning her head over her shoulder.

It was a short walk to the establishment and Cleo made quick work of finding them a table near the fire as Caleb went to order himself a drink. She'd only just taken off her scarf when he came strolling up to the table, cradling a porcelain cup of tea in hand, before taking a seat beside her.

"Happy now?" Cleo asked, pulling her chair closer to his.

" _Very_ ," he oozed. "Here, smell that. It's _heavenly_."

She leaned in, taking the aroma deep as she breathed in. "Oh, that _is_ nice," she murmured. "Peppermint?"

" _And_ cocoa and liquorice!"

"Well, aren't you just a lucky boy?" Cleo shifted in her chair to face him. "But, hey? What's been going on with you?"

He sighed, shrugging off his robe. "Oh, nothing. That is to say- more of the same. Mum's still on about what I should do with my life, et cetera, et cetera," Cal droned, clearly disinterested in the subject. Then, he seemed to move past it, smiling. "But _you!_ The baby, show me the baby!"

"I've only got the photo from when we got home from the hospital," she confessed, leaning over to dig through her bag. "I had it inside my dad's old chem text before I lent it out - I wish I could show you the albums, though. Gabriel's really cute. Here."

Snatching the picture from her hand, his face scrunched with some barely-contained emotion. "Merlin, look at him! Like a little puffmallow, isn't he?" he remarked, cradling the small photo in both hands. There was a pause before he continued: "Oh, right, Muggle pictures don't move. Forgot. I was starting to wonder why you were so still."

She leaned against his shoulder, eyes planted on the photo. "It never crossed my mind, really. But it'd be a good idea, wouldn't it? I'd like to have a photo of him running around Mum's garden."

"I think I had a mate once who developed pictures… Want me to ask around?"

"That'd… be nice, actually," she replied, glancing up at the side of his place. "Yeah, thank you."

He waved her words away with a hand. "It's the least I can do, really."

The least _he_ could do? "Oh, stop that," she complained, lightly shoving his shoulder.

" _Speaking_ of, though…" Cal rummaged in his own things before emerging with a flourish, offering a thin book with the same panache one might expect of a sacred treasure. "Ta da!"

"Oh! You actually brought it!" she exclaimed, plucking the book from his hands. She flipped through the pages, enthralled. "It's so cute! Gabriel will love this so much." She cradled the book to her chest. "Thank you, Cal. Really. This was sweet."

He humored her with a small smile, hands huddled around his cup before he took a sip. The next moment, however, he was surveying her with premeditated intrigue. With that oh-so-familiar inquisitive look in his eye, he ventured: "So, uh, not to bring up the _boggart_ in the room…"

"Straight to the point, aren't you?" she mused, furrowing her brow.

Cal lifted his hands, simpering. "Guilty," he admitted. "Can't blame a guy for being curious, though. Last I heard, ol' Benjy was resting on his laurels on the whole… having a baby thing."

She busied herself with packing the children's book into her bag. "I don't know where he is, and I don't really care either," she said finally. "It's funny, Dad tried to give him a chance to step up. Actually went about sending an _owl_ before my procedure to tell him where we were so he could come meet his son if he 'wanted to be a man about it'. Never heard a wink. Not then and not for two years since."

He grimaced. "Right-! Forget that scummy bastard, then."

"It's what I get for letting a Gryffindor knock me up," she admitted with a rueful chuckle. "I'm never going to live that one down, I don't think."

"I doubt it," he smirked. "And after all that effort, trying to convince everyone you're such a mean, green snake!"

"I'm really not," she pressed, laughing a bit harder. "Snape nearly had my head about Harry Potter over it, no joking. It was horrid."

Cal's eyes about popped out of his head. "You having me on?" he asked, gripping the table for emphasis. "Snape? Seriously?"

"Oh my _God_ ," she groaned, resting her hand on his arm. "No, listen. It was stupid! He's like a kid, right? And I'm in this bloody N.E.W.T. class, he has no idea what he's doing, and Snape is ripping him to pieces - but it's so one sided? It's like watching some grumpy old man kick a puppy. So I got dumb and stood up for him. My mistake, I guess, because the second class is over, Snape's practically _accusing_ me of barking up Potter's tree. Honestly?"

She closed her eyes, head shaking as Cal started seizing up with laughter. "First, gross? He's a baby? No way? Second, oh my God? Where's _that_ coming from? I didn't know he was so bitter, Cal! I didn't!"

"Merlin- _actual_ Snape, talking about you and the wee Boy Who Lived-!" he wheezed, laying his forehead in one hand. "I can't even wrap my mind around that."

"Neither can I, really," she admitted, settling down. "It threw me off kilter, if I'm honest with you. How are you supposed to respond to something like that?"

Cal settled his elbows on the table, gesturing with both hands. "You have to wonder, though- I mean, I'm mystified that he even thought to mention it," was his comment. "I've always figured that Snape was just this sexless ghoul."

"Oh _ew!_ " Cleo declared, recoiling away from the table at the very thought. "Ew, Cal! Don't even put that image in my _head_."

"I'm only _saying_ ," he laughed, "it's a bit weird for him to talk about!"

"I mean, you're right," she confessed. "What was it he said?... " _Wouldn't want wayward attachments to_ " - something. Inhibit me? Distract me? Whatever, but _maybe_ try not to be oddly judgemental of _my_ sex life and just, I don't know… _Not_ do that."

"Let's not fool ourselves, here," Cal remarked, looking at her sideways. "The man's not a great teacher."

"He's not an _accessible_ teacher," she corrected, slanting her head in his direction. "I _have_ learned a great deal from him, though. Probably because he only does well with people he doesn't have to be patient with. He's got _none_ of that."

"Just because he's smart doesn't mean he's good at spreading it," he pointed out. "I may have held out longer for Potions if not for him."

"I'm not defending him, Cal," she pointed out, a tad defensive herself. "He's a miserable person. I'm just being honest. I have learned a lot under him, is all."

"So, he's accepted your advising proposal, then?"

"God no," she snorted. "Funny, isn't it? The only damn thing I'm good at, magic wise, and I can't even get this guy to advise me."

Caleb rolled his eyes. "See what I mean? If the man had any sense, he'd snatch you up right off. Because you know what? You're not just good at Potions, you're _brilliant_ at it, and he's too stuffed up his arse to see it."

"Yeah, well," she sighed. "I guess that's kind of it for me, then? If he's going to refuse, then it's done."

"Cleo, let me be frank," her friend said, eyebrows raising. "You have something I've always wanted, and that's _passion_. Goals! A desire to accomplish things! Here- actually, let's switch brooms, here…" Cal shifted his weight to his forearm atop the table. "This advising thing? Why do you want to do it? What's behind this…" He huffed a short laugh. "... shall we say, masochistic streak, that you need Snape for?"

"I don't even know anymore," she admitted. "One last shot at doing what _felt_ important to me. Instead I'm ignoring what _is_ important." Her expression fell. "I'm not there for him, Cal. And it's _killing_ me. Dumbledore made a whole lot of _promises_ of what I could do to keep in contact, but what does it accomplish? Gabriel's tantruming constantly, begging me to come home. Time and time again I have to sit there and say 'I can't, honey, and for reasons you'll never understand, and that'll never be important to you, because what matters to you is the fact that Mummy isn't there to take you to nursery school, or go trick or treating with you, or to do _any_ of the things mothers are supposed to do.' And I'm here wondering, how could I be so selfish? What would be worth abandoning my _baby_ like this? And I don't know the answer anymore, Cal."

Cleo leaned forward, shoving her face into her hands. "I made a mistake and I just- I feel like I should go back home."

There was a moment of quiet between them, where the sounds of the other patrons rushed into their little corner of the pub. Clinking glasses, rumbling conversations, the shuffle of feet on wood. In the midst of it, Cal simply laid a hand on her shoulder.

A laugh, muffled, escaped from the creases in her hands. "You know the worst part?" she asked, her breath hot on her wrists. "How much everyone _believes_ in me. I tried to tell my Dad, you know? But I chickened out. And he's waving around my acceptance letter to Aberdeen, telling me _step one completed_." Her hands drew downward to rest on her neck and a damp glimmer shone on her cheek.

"Step one," she repeated softly, glancing to the ceiling. "Like I was accomplishing what I _promised_. Step one, get into Aberdeen, because they have a good pre-med program. Step two, finish my schooling in Hogwarts with recommendation from one of the foremost celebrated Potion Masters in all of Great Britain. Step three, go to medical school. Graduate. Step four, get an apprenticeship with St. Mungo's or something similar, whatever Healers will take you under their wing. Step five, _start integrating_." She shook her head. "Something we came up with together. _Stupid_ , because it's too simple. It encapsulates _years_ worth of work into something that feels _doable_. And I fuck up before I even complete step one."

"Hey, _hey_ ," Cal addressed her, rubbing circles on her shoulder. "You haven't messed it up, okay? It's a good plan, a really good one. And you? I know you can do it. Remember when- I mean, it was ages ago now, but you and I, we found that cute little plant, growing between the stones in the North Tower? And we said, since it was all alone up there, we'd take care of it. And me? I got bored, gave up after a few weeks, but you kept on. Right up until Filch clipped the poor thing off, _you kept on_. You remember?"

"I get it, I'm _stubborn_ , I know," she replied, miserable. "But-"

"That's definitely not what I said," her friend admonished her. "Although you are _that_ too- more importantly, you care about things, and you stand by them. And I know, I _know_ that you would never have left Gabriel's side in the first place if this wasn't important. If it wasn't worthwhile. Because you're always out there, making friends with idiots like me, helping people that nobody else will, and, you know, watering plants when no one else cares to."

"You're not an idiot," she disagreed, smiling slightly. "More of a wizard than I am, at any rate."

He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by his incredulity. "So what, I can sit on a broom. I can rattle off the outcomes of fifty or so battles in the Goblin Wars. I can shoot fireworks out of my arse. If that's 'more of a wizard', then we need less of them. You're the one with the kind of talent that makes an actual difference in the world."

" _Now_ you're exaggerating," she argued, visibly uncomfortable. "You don't have to build me up like that, really." She couldn't even recognize the person he was describing, anyway. It didn't match any understanding she had of _herself_ , at any rate. "Besides, you're leagues ahead of me. Shoveling dung or no."

Cal coughed, uncomfortable. "Actually, uh… I've been doing it for a year and a half. I… didn't even finish my N.E.W.T.s."

She shrugged. "It's still an honest job," she pointed out. "I'd be cashiering at a TESCO to raise my son if I wasn't blessed with generous parents. There's no shame in it."

"You wouldn't think so, the way my Mum keeps going on about it," he countered, droll. "But that's not really my point. All I'm saying is, the things that you want to do? The things you think are important? They aren't a waste of time. And I'm sure your old man knows that, too. That's why we both want to see you succeed, even if _Snape_ doesn't."

"It's not a matter of how _Snape_ feels about it," she countered. "He gave me a chance, and I was unprepared."

"Did he though?" Cal questioned, voice thick with doubt. "I mean, how much of this did you even tell him? You've got this whole _plan_ that you made with your dad, and I bet Snape didn't even bother hearing it."

"I wouldn't even tell him _that_ plan," she shot back, scandalized. "It's stupid. It's not like… It was just a way to make things seem possible to do, is all."

"It's not stupid!" was his objection. "None of this is stupid, it's your _life_ , your career, your contribution to the bloody world! He hasn't got any right to ignore it!"

"He's not _ignoring_ it," she argued. "He gave me a chance. Even after I'd gone and lost all of Slytherin's House Points. He expected _one_ thing of me and I couldn't do it. It's on me, Caleb."

"You lost… _all_ of Slytherin's points?"

"Yes, I did," she confessed, humiliated. "I'm lucky he didn't murder me on the spot-"

"Oh, _please_ \- if that's true, then that settles it, yeah? The man's a monster about his stupid House. First he takes issue with you leaving school, then he's making nasty insinuations about you and another student, and now this? He thinks he can get away with taking his personal grudges out on you? It's disgusting, is what it is. You ought to complain straight to the Board-"

"And say what?" she asked, exasperated. "This mean old man won't advise me like I want him to? What leg do I have to stand on? I can't just _ask_ for things, expecting everyone to just toe the line and hand it to me without anything in return! I'm not a child, Caleb!"

He rubbed his face with both hands, heaving out a breath. "I know you're not. But this is about _him_ , Cleo. You're doing everything right, and yet you're being punished because Snape is the one who's a bloody child."

"What have I done right, Caleb?" she challenged, feeling much more heated than she ought have. "Seriously. What have I _actually_ done correctly?"

There was a pause, where he was clearly casting about for the proper thing to say. "It's- It's not like I've got a list, but you're _always_ on top of things. You've got the plan, the vision… I know you've put work into this. You've made sacrifices by being here. And here's Snape, throwing all that in the bin like it doesn't matter? I won't stand for that, and neither should you."

"I'm not entitled to his time, attention, or consideration," she muttered, leaning back in her chair.

" _Yes_ , you are!" Cal argued, punctuating his statement with a sharp thwack on the table. "He's your teacher! Your Head of House! It's in his literal job description!"

"He's _not_ obligated to advise me! That's a _special_ position! If I were him, I wouldn't bloody well advise me either!"

At this, her friend puffed himself up, his gestures coming even more staccato. "No- look. You've put up with that git for years, done all the work, let him walk all over you. And you're going to let him slink away, just like that? _No_." In all their years of friendship, Cal had never looked so deadly serious. "Isn't it time he gave something back to you, after all the shite you've had to deal with from him?"

"It's not that simple," she protested, frowning. "He doesn't _owe_ me anything. And I haven't had to _deal_ with his nonsense… If anything, _he's_ had to-"

" _Don't_ start that," Cal demanded, a barbed edge to his tone. "If you ask me, Snape's got a lot to answer for."

"Answer for? What in the world do you think he has to _answer_ for?"

"The way he treats his students! The way he treats _you!_ "

"If you have personal umbrage with him then _fine,_ I can't blame you for that. But he hasn't treated me like _anything_ -"

"You know what?" he cut her off, snatching his scarf from the table. "I do. I _really_ do." Cal stood up from his seat, throwing a few Sickles onto the table and fumbling around with his gloves.

"You've got to be joking," Cleo scoffed, observing him with disbelief. When no response was forthcoming, she leaned forward, just barely catching his wrist as he began to stride away from the table. "Seriously. What're you doing?"

He looked her dead in the eye. "If you won't defend yourself, then _I will_."

••••••••••

A long line of bickering trailed behind them, spanning the entire length of their procession to Hogwarts.

"You're not even a student anymore. You can't go in there."

"Watch me! What the hell are they going to do about it?!"

"I don't know, let's think- stop you? Contact your family? Your _boss?_ You could lose your job?"

"Good, my job's rubbish anyway."

"What's yelling at Snape even going to _accomplish_ , Cal? For God's sake- Will you slow _down?_ "

"I have five years of words for that man, and I've waited around long enough."

"So, what? You go in there, yell at him, and then what? You feel better?"

"Yeah! Maybe! And you know what else? After that, I'll make sure that sack of shite never sets foot in a classroom ever again-!"

"Do you even understand how ridiculous that sounds?!"

"What's ridiculous is how he's been allowed to destroy the hearts and minds of children for so long without repercussion!"

"Then lodge a complaint with Dumbledore!"

"I will!"

"Great! I'll walk you there!"

"But first, I'm going to look that bloody toe rag in the eye and give him a taste of his own medicine!"

"All you're going to do is find yourself at the business end of his wand-"

"The fact that you think it's plausible for him to _attack_ me is exactly the problem, Cleo."

"I'm not disagreeing with you! He's an unmitigated _jerk!_ He's mean, cruel, vindictive-"

"Lovely! Then you won't mind me teaching him a lesson in _manners_ -!"

"I'm saying it's not damn well _worth_ getting in a fight you can't- Caleb? Caleb!"

Acting on instinct and anger, Cal plunged himself into the dungeons, jostling a couple of wayward Ravenclaws on their way up from class. He traversed the dungeons with surprising familiarity and speed and, by the time she caught up to him, Caleb had pushed himself halfway into the man's office. No knock, no preamble, he just burst through the threshold, fists still balled up tight in fury.

"Where do you get off, you absolute _cun-_?!"

" _Caleb!_ " Cleo shrieked, wrenching herself through the door.

The exchange only lasted a few seconds at most, but, to both their surprise, Snape had his wand aimed in their direction before they even registered his movement.

She froze, mouth latched shut in an instant.

Cal, on the other hand, had quite a lot to say. "Going to threaten us right off, then? Cutting to the quick already?"

The professor's expression soured, wand arm settling back at his side. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, tone sharp.

"Caleb, _please_ -"

"I told you, Cleo, I won't stand for-!"

She strode up beside him, glowering. "You're not _helping_ me-"

Snape's voice cut through theirs. "Explain yourselves, or get out of my office."

"You aren't my superior, which means I don't have to listen to your _shite_ any longer," Cal shot back, rising to the challenge.

The man graced him with a twist of the lip and a bored stare. "Neither am I obligated to hear yours."

"Look, Snape, you've had a good run-"

"Caleb _stop-_ "

"- but when you flat-out ignore the honest efforts of your students just to satisfy this... This _heinous_ sadistic streak-"

"Caleb!"

"- you reveal yourself as the loathsome, pathetic bully that you are and, frankly, it's a wonder you've managed to escape the consequences, but _not anymore_ -!"

Cleo gripped him hard, shoving him toward the door. "STOP IT!"

Cal staggered, visibly startled, but finally, _finally_ shut his mouth. He scowled between her and Snape, his wild outrage clearly evident… There were still plenty of words waiting behind his teeth, itching to burst out.

Her grip on his arm tightened. "Just. _Stop_."

"You can't be serious-!"

It was inevitable, wasn't it? What this was coming to? It wasn't as if Cal was going to allow himself to leave here, dissatisfied. Not unless there were _results._ She hated her hand being forced like this. "Just - go outside."

" _Why-_?"

" _Go_ outside."

He stared at her in abject disbelief, caught between frustration and confusion. Then, his glare slid sideways, honing in on Snape. With little warning, he turned away, grabbing the door as he stalked out and slamming it with such force that Cleo could hear the boom reverberate through the Potions classroom.

Her eyes remained locked on the closed door long after Cal abandoned them and the agitated quiet bled back into the room.

Snape's voice traversed the space to her. "Miss Croft-"

"I'm _so_ tired," she groused, her hand reaching up to hold the side of her face. "I am so, _so_ bloody tired, Snape. And I'm just… _done_." Not like it mattered. Not like he _cared_. "I'm already halfway out the gates anyway, so-" _Whatever. Let's do this._

Her body pivoted and she approached the professor's desk, rushed; without a single consideration for how her actions might appear, her outer robe was thrown atop a nearby chair and her hands worked to unlatch the bottom buttons of her blouse.

Attention drawn by her actions, the man's eyes darted to her midriff before locking onto her face, narrowing, a wary slant to his head. "Whatever it is you're hoping to accomplish with _this_ -"

"Oh would you just _shut up?_ " she ordered, her face drawn in concentration.

In a moment, she finished, stopping just short of her chest as she pulled the cloth apart. There, a scar, gnarled, rough and haloed by stretch marks, twisted upward from under her skirt, reaching until it clung to the bottom of her bellybutton. Her stomach clenched against the dank chill of the dungeons and she glanced down, grimacing, before looking Snape in the eye again.

"Seven months into my pregnancy, I got sick," the words blundered out of her, as painful as the memory they recalled. "It started with a headache. I've never really had headaches before. But my son's pregnancy was hard on me; there wasn't a day when I wasn't feeling awful. The odd thing was though, the headache didn't go away. For five straight days, it didn't leave. That's when my dad knew something was wrong."

Snape did not interrupt this time, a clear indication that she had his attention. The man stood very still, expression locked in a neutral affect, simply waiting.

Cleo took in a breath, her eyes closing. "Preeclampsia," the word sunk from her bottom lip, lumbering, bloated on its own gravity. "Pretty easy to diagnose. One urine test. _One_ urine test and I was burdened with the most loaded choice of my life - deliver my son early and hope that he could survive, or die.

"The _thing_ that nobody told me, though," she paused, her eyelids fluttering open to watch him again, "was that Muggle medicine is dangerous for magical people. And that simple fact nearly killed us both."

An embittered, self-effacing chuckle dislodged from her throat. "My doctors didn't know what to make of it. They ended up calling it an anomalous anaphylactic reaction to anaesthesia." Her gaze flickered to her scar, fingers tightening reflexively against her blouse. "The rub of it, though? It was still my best choice, because there wasn't a better one. The Wizarding World has no idea what Preeclampsia is, much less how to deal with it. In fact, I later learned that the whole of maternity is _untouched_ by magical medicine.

"And here _I_ am, going to an OB/GYN, as if I wasn't inherently different from the Muggle practitioner in front of me. Magical bodies, non-magical bodies - they have the same parts. They function similarly. And as it turns out, they experience the same diseases, too. The only difference is, the Muggles understand what to do. Wizards _don't_."

She rest her hands just above her abdomen, the gesture so familiar that it made her insides twist. "I couldn't explain it," Cleo murmured, eyes plummeting down to gaze at her stomach. "It's hard for me to feel much about the Wizarding World. But this made me… _so_ angry. Because if I _had_ gone to a Healer, what would they have done? Even if somehow they figured out I needed to deliver early, how would they have helped my son survive? Thirty two weeks, his lungs weren't even fully developed. He couldn't even _breathe_ on his own for God's sake-"

She clenched her eyes against a sting and she swallowed hard, fingers digging into her stomach. "I shouldn't have gone through that," she uttered, slowly, with more conviction. "No witch should _ever_ have to go through that. It was _needless_. For _years_ I couldn't make myself feel a _damn_ thing about what happened here - but the _second_ after I _woke up_ not knowing whether or not my son was alive-" She sucked in a breath, gritting her teeth. "I wanted it to change. I _wanted_ to change it. _That's_ why I'm here. _This_ -" she emphasized, raking her nails across the jagged edges of her scarred-over incision, "is why I'm here."

Her arms dropped to her sides. " _Right_ now, I have a two year old at home, who has no _bloody_ idea why his mother has decided to just _fuck_ off to God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what because, _for once_ , I felt like I could do something good _here_. And at this moment, _you_ are what literally decides whether or not I give that up and go home, _where I should be_ , and have a different kind of life with my family."

Her fingers scrunched up the fabric of her skirt, heaving up higher on her legs as she scowled. "So if you could find some piddling token of generosity within you, I'd _implore_ you to _please_ advise me, Professor Snape."

There was a protracted moment between them, then. He still hadn't moved, nor given any semblance of a reaction. Despite the man's stillness, Cleo could tell the air around them was not empty; the sound of her voice was diffused all around, and the professor, surrounded by it as he was, seemed to be in contemplation, his black eyes probing her face.

The attention was distinctly uncomfortable, the silence disheartening the longer it continued. Then, when Cleo was on the precipice of her unease, he finally spoke.

"I assume you're finished?" the question emerged from him, jagged and barbed. "Got it all off your chest?"

Her fingers ruffled the hem of her skirt as she clenched it tighter.

The man sighed, leaning back against the edge of his desk. "I see your penchant for imprudent, melodramatic spectacles is unchanged. As is my answer to your ultimatum."

 _Of course_. Expected. In the very least, it gave her _clarity_.

Lips pressed in a taut line, she pulled her shirt over her scars, eyes locked on the cruel outline of his face. "Great." She felt a shift in the air when she broke eye contact, her hands fumbling to button her blouse back together.

"Miss Croft."

She didn't stop. She smoothed her hands over the wrinkles in her skirt, approaching the chair that cradled her outer robe.

"I did not dismiss you."

"What more could you possibly have to say?" she mocked, a harsh laugh tearing itself from her lungs. "You've been clear. You have no intention of advising me."

There was a sour edge to his tone. "I have little choice when there is nothing to advise."

 _That_ , above all else, stilled her. Winded, her voice snapped up to him before her head could: "What?"

The man was ensconced in much the same position, except his arms were folded and his glare was more acute. "You still have not offered a proposal."

"But I just told you what I-"

"You have stated your motivation, not your goal," Snape interrupted her. "Noble as your _intentions_ may be, I can do nothing with them."

She scoffed at him, incredulous. "Did you even _listen_ to a word I said?" she balked. "I _want_ to start the practice of obstetrics for witches-"

"And of what use is that to _me?_ " he pressed.

It sort of snapped into place, then, what he was saying. _Damn it_. Begrudging, her hands crossed over her chest. "You think I'm being too broad-"

He lifted his eyebrows in sarcastic acknowledgement. "Unless, of course, you intended to reinvent an entire branch of magic within two years."

" _No_ ," she shot back, defensive.

The man surveyed her with what she presumed was irritation, or perhaps disgust. Then, with a crisp gesture toward the seat beside him, he remarked, "I cannot fathom why you are so adamant that I be the one to advise you."

She didn't move an inch to occupy it. "Does it matter?"

"If you plan to undertake such a lofty and formidable goal," Snape replied, "then yes, your motivations matter a great deal."

He wouldn't care, even if she was honest. What with his utter _disdain_ for emotional displays, she lied through her teeth: "Because you are the foremost Potion Master in the United Kingdom, because you have the _wisdom_ , the _discipline_ -"

" _Spare_ me such _sycophantic_ nonsense," his antipathy tore through her sentence, forcing her silence. "You are, as always, a pitiful liar."

"It just has to be you, okay?" she insisted, the full weight of her frustration pulsing in her tensed limbs.

"I find that hard to believe."

"I don't care what you believe. It's _true_. I just _need_ it to be you."

"If the situation is so very imperative," the man sneered at her, "then you must have a reason."

"Because it just _has_ to be-"

" _Why?_ "

"Because you were the _only_ person to tell me I was being _stupid_ , you wretched _arsehole!_ " she barked, the harsh thrum of her voice climbing outward, managing to fill the gaps in the emptiness of that room. "Because everyone's only ever been _gentle_ with me! No one _ever_ seems capable of telling me the bloody _truth._ I don't regret Gabriel. I _never_ will, but everyone acted as if my being pregnant as a _teenager_ was some bloody miracle. Even my dad's _boss_ , who was doing his _very best_ to try to convince me to terminate my pregnancy, couldn't even force himself to be anything but _cordial_. In all the time I've been here, you've _never_ lied to me, even if it hurt.

"You were the _only_ one who told me that I was making the biggest mistake of my life. You were the _only_ one to treat me as if I had potential to squander. You were the _only_ person who actually got _angry_ at me." She threw her glance to the wall behind him, frowning.

"I _never_ wanted any of this," she admitted, voice growing quiet. "This school, this culture, this _magic_. I begged. I raged. I cried. And on that first night, nine years ago, you looked me dead in the eye and you told me, _stop it_. It didn't matter what I wanted, what I _wished_. I had to deal with what I _was_. It doesn't matter if Cleo Croft doesn't want to be a witch. She _is_ one. And when I sat in your classroom for the first time and learned how to brew a Wart-Removal potion, I actually _felt_ something. Do you remember what grade you gave me?"

He didn't answer, though he did raise his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

"'Troll'. I'd never gotten a grade like that before. And you know what? It was weird. I couldn't manage to turn a needle into a match, or produce a halfway decent jelly-legs jinx, but _none_ of the other professors would give me anything below an 'Acceptable.' Because I _tried_ , right? But _trying_ didn't matter to you." She looked back at him. "'Success isn't measured in effort.' You told me that. And it never really clicked for me until I was looking at your feedback and _finding_ something valuable in it. You'd write on my essay: 'How could you possibly delude yourself into thinking that Flobberworm Mucus can be used as a base for ageing potions?' and I would realize that I didn't know. So I would look it up. I'd _learn_ something. I'd come back to class and I'd do _better_ because it _meant_ something when I could get Professor Snape to look me in the eye and tell me that what I've accomplished is _worthy_."

She breathed in deep through her nose. "You are cruel, vindictive, exhausting, infuriating and completely unapproachable," Cleo listed, catching his gaze once more. "But you are a teacher who has meant more to me than any other. You are the only one who made me feel like I _belonged_ here. That I had something to _offer_. That made me feel that if, given the time to really _work_ , I could actually accomplish whatever I set before me."

The professor stared at her a moment. His expression was… caught in-between. Not angry, but also not pleased, if the deep lines of his frown were anything to go by. Still, the fact that he had bothered to listen at all was as bolstering as it was mystifying.

"Be that as it may…" Snape, at length, addressed her, his arms crossed taut. "Without an actual proposal, the result is unchanged."

He said "the result" as if it had nothing to do with him. Like it was impersonal. Out of his hands. His point, however, appeared to her in sharp focus. She'd offered nothing for him to advise. Nothing concrete, at least. Nothing that could be accomplished in the span of two years.

It was daunting when put into that perspective.

Nothing that a silly _five step plan_ could ever attain.

Cleo shifted on her feet, body swaying back on an instinct to exit the room. "Great," she repeated, falsely chipper. "We're done here, then. Thanks for your time."

"Miss Croft."

Hadn't they already done this? This time, she refused to stop as she addressed him, gathering her outer robe and draping it over her forearm: "What?"

"One request."

The man pushed off from the desk, returning to the seat behind it as she prompted: "And that would be?"

Snape let her words hang in the air briefly as he wound his fingers together, leaning back in his chair. "When you supply me with your _actual_ proposal this Friday evening, not a _minute_ after seven, and _without_ a chaperone," he drawled, his gaze pointed. "Do me the courtesy of knocking first."


	7. Dichotomy

AN: Our longest chapter, somehow shoved out the fastest of all of them! Writing this one was fun and... Merry, despite the hurdles life throws in our way, I am happy we are doing this together. I could not ask for a more perfect writing partner. We've done this for ten years and it has always been the brightest aspect of my life. I love you. I'm proud of you. Here's to ten more years.

Thank you, as ever, to our beta Henry, who provides all the best insight and commentary any writer could ask for.

For chapter images and faster updates, check us out on AO3!

Coming Soon - Chapter 8: Probability

••••••••••

"Harry? Harry! Are you listening?"

His eyes refocused on Hermione as he came back to his senses. "Er, yeah- of, of course…"

The look she gave him was as patient as it was skeptical. "Well then, what did I just say?"

"You, er… Something about a… a plant…?"

"Yes," was her dry affirmation. "Believe it or not, we do study plants in Herbology."

He blinked, the corners of his mouth turning down as he realized how thick he sounded.

"Harry- are you feeling alright? You're not really…" Hermione offered him a sympathetic frown. "I mean, if you want to take a break, we can."

"No- _no,_ it's fine," he insisted, rousing himself with a deep breath and a quick slap on his cheeks.

"You've been really tired lately," she observed, brushing a tuft of hair behind her ear.

Shrugging, Harry sighed. "Haven't been sleeping well."

"I would imagine not," she observed, leaning into her hand. "Are your… _extracurricular_ activities more strenuous than you expected…?"

He frowned. His late night excursions for the Order could very well have something to do with misaligning his sleep schedule, but to admit that to Hermione might provoke worry. "I wouldn't say _strenuous,_ " Harry commented, stretching his neck out. "More annoying than anything else."

"Annoying?" she inquired, her nose wrinkling. "I thought this was something you wanted-?"

"Well, yeah," he replied. "But I didn't want it with _Snape._ "

"I suppose that's fair enough," Hermione conceded before she leaned closer to him. "I'm still not certain what the Headmaster is attempting to accomplish with that."

He shrugged. "Who knows?" Then, his eyebrows lowered as he suggested, conspiratorial, "Wonder if he actually means for me to keep an eye on him? Make sure he doesn't do anything dodgy."

"No offense, Harry," she asserted, trying to sound much more delicate than she actually did, "but I honestly doubt it."

A smile overtook his face, unbidden. "Oh, yeah?"

"I mean, why would he?" she challenged, raising an eyebrow. "Even if by some chance Dumbledore _didn't_ trust Snape, 'babysitting' him is hardly a job he'd give to a _student-_ "

" _Yeah,_ yeah, you're probably right," Harry conceded, leaning back in his seat. "But it leaves a better taste than Dumbledore just _liking_ Snape. I mean, that whole bit about how Snape's _so great_ at everything, and they way he just thought it was _so funny_ that Snape was being accused of hurting a student… It was awful."

"It is a touch… difficult to understand," she admitted, mouth twisting. "But at the very least, you aren't going to have to see him _privately_ for a while."

"Actually," he groaned, "I've another meeting tonight."

"Oh," she breathed, a bit stunned. "That's quick."

His mind went to the kidnapped girl, the things Snape had sneered at him in the alleyway. He mumbled, "Yeah. Time is sort of an object, in this case."

She nodded, sympathetic. "Well, if you needed to get some sleep, I wouldn't mind-"

"No, it's fine! I still want to help. After all that work you missed, I figured..."

Hermione reached out to give his hand a pat. "I really appreciate it, Harry, but there's no need to strain yourself. I know you've got your own work to do too."

"Well," he slouched in his seat, "if it weren't for me-"

" _Don't_ you start on that again."

"I just-"

"You're not responsible for anything except being hopelessly unprepared for that practical."

Despite himself, Harry huffed a laugh. "Straight to the point, I see!"

Hermione flung her arms above her head, stretching her back over the couch cushions. "True, though, isn't it? Professor Snape may have it out for you, but you aren't exactly proving him wrong."

Harry winced. "Ouch, Hermione."

"You're even going on those outings with him, for the _old crowd,_ and not taking a single note during-"

"It's not a classroom," he groused, lowering his voice. "I don't actually have time to take out a quill, you know!"

"I've been telling you," she countered, matter-of-fact, "this year is really serious! It's nearly November, and you're still not caught up on readings, you're late with your assignments…"

"I know, I know," he murmured before raising his eyebrows at her. "Maybe I should have left you in the Hospital Wing…"

Harry ducked as Hermione sent a pillow flying his way, laughing. "Harry, _honestly!_ Ron's been rubbing off on you, hasn't he?"

"Ha! Yeah, quite a bad egg, that one."

Hermione glanced toward the window. "Do you suppose he's actually gone to his detention, or is he skipping that too?"

"Cut him some slack, Hermione. He was really worried about you."

"That's not an excuse to skip Transfiguration! And besides, it's been going on for a while. Haven't you noticed? He's almost never showed up to Herbology with us."

"I, er, sort of… assumed he'd dropped the class?"

"Well _now_ he has," Hermione fretted. "I just don't know what's to stop him dropping them all!"

"I don't think it's that serious, Hermione."

"Well, I do!" she countered. "I mean, the two of us have things we want to do after school, but what has Ron got?"

Harry shrugged. "Figured he'd work at the joke shop."

"Maybe," she granted with an air of displeasure, "but do you really think that's all he wants to do with his life?"

He'd never really thought about it in those terms. Ron liked to do all sorts of things, but, now that Harry thought about it, he couldn't recall his friend preferring any one thing over another. He liked to have fun, sure, and normally enjoyed his classes well enough, despite his complaining. But what was it that Ron really, _properly,_ liked to do?

"I thought he might have liked to stay on with Quidditch," Harry ventured, though his suggestion lacked energy. "Since, you know... that's what he saw in the Mirror of Erised, back in first year."

Hermione slanted him a look, pausing her quill. "He was eleven, Harry. You can't just assume he wants the same things now as he did then- and, besides, he quit the team, so that should tell you all you need to know-"

"I know," he stressed, hoping to stop another lecture before it started. "Maybe I could talk to him? You've still got a lot of catch up to do, after all..."

The girl before him sighed. "I've been trying to get through to him, but- maybe he'll listen better to you. I don't suppose there are a lot of other options at this point."

"That's the spirit," Harry remarked before rubbing his tired eyes. "You know, I'd much rather all three of us get together, but your schedule is brutal, Hermione. I mean-" He gestured to the mountain of books on the table. " _Somehow,_ you're still taking on nine classes, when I can barely scrape by with five!"

"Well, as they say, ' _scientia potentia est'._ "

"... _What?_ Who on Earth says that?" Harry choked out.

"'Knowledge is power'," Hermione quoted. "Thomas Hobbes, though of course the phrase originates long before _him_ but - you _really_ ought to study more Latin, Harry. It helps a lot with understanding spell syntax."

"Looking to pile even more homework on me?" he chuckled, half in disbelief, his mind going to the Chemistry text in his bag. "I think I've got enough already, thanks."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself. But there's all sorts of information around that can help you in school, in _life._ The more you know, the easier it is to understand the world, you know?"

Her philosophy didn't surprise him, considering Hermione had never met a book she couldn't devour in a day. But Harry? Reading always gave him a headache, and theory was often hopelessly dull, needlessly convoluted.

Which was exactly why all the extra reading he was doing for Croft was melting his brain.

"Yeah, I get it," Harry caved, glancing pointedly at the overburdened tabletop. "But we're not all cut out for your workload, Hermione. I mean honestly- you're going for a N.E.W.T. in History of Magic? I'm surprised you haven't died from boredom."

"I _like_ history, Harry!" she laughed, snatching the offending text from atop a nearby pile. Then, her mien shifted into thoughtfulness as she looked at him. "Actually… I've been meaning to tell you and Ron something… but, um…"

This piqued his interest. "You been _keeping_ something from us?" Harry raised his eyebrows, amused. "Well, come on, then! That guilty look of yours says it all!"

"It's not a secret," she insisted, her bashful expression vanishing. "I just didn't want… a repeat of last time."

"Last time?"

"I've been trying to start a new organization," Hermione continued, pulling her bag onto the table to rifle through it. "I haven't given up on S.P.E.W., but there was something else I noticed since this year started. Something that no one else seems to have realized."

Harry frowned, watching her movements. "What do you mean?"

She pulled a long slip of parchment from her bag, unrolling it on the table. Along one side, there appeared to be a list of book titles. "This here is a list of all the books which have been moved from their normal place to some obscure corner, or have been categorized incorrectly, from last year to now. There's about thirty in total. And _this_ -" Her finger travelled to the opposite edge of the page, where there was another, much longer list. "This is all the books which have been removed from the library altogether. I can no longer find them anywhere at all."

Harry glanced from her to the page. "They could have just been checked out, or lost…"

"Give me more credit than that," Hermione huffed. "I've been to the library every day, all year. I've talked to Madam Pince. These books aren't around anymore, and she says she can't replace them either, since nobody is selling them. A lot of them are very rare."

"What about the Restricted Section?" he inquired.

"She says even more have gone missing from there. She's a very dedicated librarian; I mean, you've seen how she gets if anyone even hints that they intend to mistreat a book! The fact that all these are missing, without being checked out, is worrisome."

Well, that was a puzzle. "Er… stolen, then?"

"Maybe, but by whom? I mean, so far, we are talking dozens of books that have gone missing, Harry. _Dozens._ There are entire shelves of the Restricted Section that are cleared out, _gone._ A student would have a hard time managing _that,_ don't you think?"

"Yeah, probably," he had to admit.

Hermione sat up straighter in her seat, pointing at her list earnestly. "And the real clincher? Most of these books, if not all, were either written by Muggleborns, or were inclusive of Muggle rhetoric, including works with intersectional theory and goals, such as-"

Harry held up his hands in alarm. "Uh, Hermione, you're losing me…"

She appeared winded as she slumped over again, her top row of teeth gnawing on her bottom lip in thought. "Right. Well, what I mean is - a lot of these works are what some… _specific_ people would call 'radical'. Simply for being sympathetic to Muggles, or Muggleborns for that matter!"

"So… the sort of stuff that would make purebloods mad," he summarized, resting his chin in his hand. Then, he looked at her in alarm. "Wait- you don't think… the Slytherins are stealing the books. Do you?"

"Weren't you listening?" Hermione murmured, exasperated. "This is hardly the work of students. It would be entirely too difficult-"

"But… you've seen them! All those big displays they're doing! What if they were all in it together?"

Hermione leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. "So droves of Slytherins have been piling in - _secretly_ of course - to steal all these books, completely under Madam Pince's nose? And where are they putting these books, Harry? How are they disposing of them - and so covertly, at that? How are they getting mass permission to access the Restricted Section, without seeming suspicious? How are they-"

"Okay, okay," Harry groaned. "I get it. But I mean, they've done plenty of dodgy things before…"

" _My_ point, Harry," Hermione sighed, features softening. "Is that prejudice doesn't begin and end in Slytherin. This was an administrative decision. The Ministry, most likely. This was the result of politics, not the antics of school children."

"Oh." He frowned, glancing at the scars on the back of his right hand. "You mean Umbridge."

"It could've ramped up with her, yes," Hermione mused, her hand automatically reaching over to cover his with her palm. "She produced so many Decrees that I often lost track of them, so I wouldn't be surprised if she started weeding out 'unsafe texts' for our _protection_." Her eyes screwed shut as she held back a sigh in frustration. "But this has been ongoing. And considering how many Purists work within the Ministry _itself_ \- not to mention the school _board_ \- I can promise this has long been precedent."

Harry looked down at her hand atop his. "That sounds…" _Confusing. Sinister. Inescapable._ "... difficult to combat."

"Maybe," Hermione replied, pensive. "But, far be it from me to allow something as silly as _difficulty_ to stop me, right?"

"Well then. What _are_ you going to do?"

"I've some vague ideas," she replied, cagey. "I'll get back to you when I have something more solid."

"Er… okay?" Harry frowned at her, worried. The last time she'd kept things from him and Ron, she'd been mucking about with time travel!

"Don't worry about it," she assured him, though it was hardly a comfort. "Mind handing me my Arithmancy text? Since you don't seem much for plants at the current moment."

He leaned around one of the stacks, getting a good look at the spines before locating the she was asking for. "Here." A sigh. "You sure you want to skip lunch? You've got two classes in a row after this, don't you?"

She opened the mouth of her bag in display, where some snack bars were teetering, perilously, over the covers of _more_ books. "Don't worry. I've handled a big study session before. I'll even eat another helping of pudding tonight at dinner, just for you."

Harry offered her a mock-salute. "Lovely. Now, if only I can live through the rest of this day, I can _maybe_ catch the barest minimum of sleep, and we'll both be satisfied."

She took one of her bars out and peeled away the plastic, closing her mouth over a large bite of granola as she stuffed away the refuse back into her bag. "You can go to lunch if you want to," she said, the words peeking out from under her hand as she used it to cover her full mouth. "Brilliant as you are, I don't think you're going to help me much with this." She curled her pinky outward to gesture to her Arithmancy text.

"Ha, probably not," he mused. "But I, er… technically need to finish reading something before Charms, so… No lunch for me, I think."

"Oh, Potions?" she assumed, her eyes brightening. "Good idea. Snape might have another practical prepared for tomorrow, I think. I could help you with that-"

"Oh, uh, thanks but no… I mean-!" He tried to head off the protest that was obviously on the tip of her tongue. "Yeah, I'm still behind on Potions, but actually I… got a tutor."

Hermione stared at him for a moment, befuddled. "A tutor," she repeated, disbelieving.

"I figured, you know, after everything that's going on this year, I just needed some help."

"Well, I could have helped if you asked," Hermione replied, her tone subdued. Harry wasn't sure what to make of her reaction; he thought she would be happy that he was finally taking his studies seriously.

"You help me a lot in all my other classes," he told her. "And you've got enough on your plate, now that I've- er, now that you were laid up in bed for days."

She didn't seem convinced, though she moved to open the front cover of the Arithmancy text. "Well, who is it, then?"

"It's that Slytherin girl, Croft."

"Wait," Hermione interjected, squinting. "You agreed to be tutored… by a Slytherin?"

"Well, I was originally supposed to tutor _her,_ but she doesn't need it, so I uh… kind of asked."

"You, Harry Potter," she emphasized, almost as if she were trying to make sense of it, "asked a _Slytherin_ to tutor you?"

"Yeah…" He smiled uncomfortably. "Doesn't really sound like me, does it?"

"Not in the slightest," she returned, concerned. "Are… well, are you sure it's safe?"

He huffed a laugh. "I mean, anything's safer than Snape, right?"

She was more than skeptical. "Not necessarily," she broached. "But… You're sure _she's_ safe?"

"No idea," Harry admitted, hauling his bag onto the table. "I don't know. It's just a feeling, but I don't think she's really like the others."

"What makes you think that?"

He glanced around the Common Room, secretive. "To start, she can't even cast an Incision Spell, so I don't think she intends to murder anyone. That already puts her a cut above."

"What do you mean 'can't cast'?" Hermione questioned, incredulous.

He shrugged. "She just… can't. I saw her try, and nothing happened."

"That doesn't prove much," she warned him. "Just, maybe that she has control over her powers. She could've been pretending to try."

"I'm not stupid, Hermione," he grumbled. "I know when people are trying to trick me, and she just… wasn't."

"How do you _know_ , though?" she pressed. "Not to sound like Ron, but you _know_ how well Slytherins can deceive. Not to mention _this_ particular Slytherin has been kicked out of the school once-"

"Actually, she left on her own," was Harry's waspish reply. "And seriously, it's just Potions, we're not best friends or anything!"

"I certainly hope not," Hermione said, sighing. "I'm not trying to be mean, Harry. I'm just worried. Considering you've already seen her talk to Draco at least once, well…" She let that sentence hang, her eyes dropping down to look at the bar of granola in her hand.

"It'll be fine," he promised her, his tone evening out as he reached out to pat her hand. "You'll see."

She considered this a moment before hesitating, her shoulders drooping as she looked at him. "Promise me something, Harry?"

"Hm?"

"That if you were doing something like… investigating, trying to get close to Slytherin in order to figure out what Malfoy is doing… you'd tell me?" she asked, her hand turning under his to squeeze his fingers.

That hit a little too close to home, considering why he'd initially contacted the girl in the first place. He couldn't deny that there was a part of him inherently curious, a part which realized that the more time he spent around Slytherins as a whole, the more likely he was to bump into Malfoy. Catch him in the act. And what with how involved Croft had been in that protest, it seemed that she might be just enough in the thick of it to serve that purpose. But… that wasn't what he was doing _now._

… Was it?

"Yeah," Harry told her, leaning back in his seat again and cracking open the Chemistry text. "Of course I would."

••••••••••

Fortunately, despite his earlier absence, Ron did show up to Charms later that day. Unfortunately, he was _livid_ to find out what Harry would be up to directly after.

"You're doing _what?!_ "

His outburst was loud enough to pause several students in the process of packing up their things at the end of class. Harry shot him a look of warning. "It's only tutoring, Ron! Nothing to get your pants in a wad over…"

"You have to be joking," his friend huffed in the center of his disbelieving chuckle. "Hermione? Please tell me this is some kind of gag."

Her bushy hair slid side to side as she glanced between the two of them. "Ehm… no. Harry really has got tutoring with Croft."

" _Excuse_ me?!" His face was full red, then. "And when were you lot planning to say anything to me? Since apparently everyone is fine with this!"

Hermione sighed. "Harry only just told me this morning, which you would _know_ if you had come to class with us-"

"Oh, don't _start,_ " Ron spat, glaring at her.

"Hey, c'mon," Harry interjected, placing a hand on both their shoulders. "Let's not fight. And there's no need to worry, either; I can handle myself."

"You can't _trust_ Slytherins, Harry," Ron told him, point-blank. "You _know_ that."

"I… I know," he admitted, eyes falling to their feet, arranged triangularly below them. "And I'm not saying I am. I just…"

Just what? Needed a tutor? Harry knew he could easily have gotten one elsewhere.

He grimaced, continuing, "Look, I figured I would just… see how this goes. If it doesn't work out, then it doesn't work out."

Hermione's posture changed as she fretted, "Harry, not to be rude, but don't you think it's a bit reckless-"

Ron argued, simultaneously, "You've had five whole years of seeing how well that's gonna 'work out'-!"

" _Alright,_ " Harry stressed, irritated. "I get it. You're worried. But I'm doing this, okay?"

Hermione's mouth was pressed in a thin line, but Ron immediately said, "Fine. Then I'm coming with you."

"Ron, that's not-"

"I let you talk me out of meeting with Dumbledore, but I won't let you talk me out of this," his friend argued. "I'm going to be there to make sure she doesn't try anything funny."

Harry grimaced. "It's really not that serious."

"What could it hurt?" Hermione proposed, cradling her Charms text to her chest. "Besides, Ron could do with a bit of tutoring anyway-"

He immediately rounded on her. "Oi! I'm not taking lessons from some _snake!_ " Ron objected. "And Potions is _rubbish_ anyway."

With a sigh, Harry conceded, "Fine, if it will make you feel better. But you can't sit there and run your mouth the whole time; I do actually need to learn things, you know."

Ron snorted. "Oh, now I'm just a bother to you? Great."

"Ron, honestly. That's _not_ what he was saying," Hermione protested. "He _is_ behind. And although I'm still very skeptical about his choice in _tutor_ -"

"It will be fine," Harry insisted. "Honestly. I don't want to cause any trouble…"

"Pfft, there's a first," Ron muttered, shrugging Harry's hand off his shoulder. "But not to worry, I won't ruin your little meeting by breathing too loud."

With that, he stalked off out the door, leaving Harry and Hermione frowning behind him. "I… didn't mean it like that."

Her head tilted. "I know you didn't, Harry," she assured him. "I- I just don't think he's in a good place right now."

"Yeah." He hiked his bag up higher on his shoulder. "We'll uh, see you at dinner, then?"

"Suppose so…" she answered, stepping away. "Save you a seat."

Offering her a somber smile, his parting statement was a simple, "Thanks."

Outside, Ron was standing, arms crossed, directly beside Croft, who seemed… Harry wasn't sure. Confused, perhaps? If it was him, he certainly would be.

"So… my friend is coming with us," he remarked, direct. "And, uh, speaking of, where are we going for this?"

"The potion workrooms," she replied, although quite jilted still. "You didn't mention your friend needed tutoring too."

"He doesn't," Harry replied, irked. "And, uh… Workrooms? We have those?"

She frowned. "You didn't know?"

Instead of answering, Harry glanced at Ron. His friend's face was still sour, but he did grumble, "Snape is the one who reserves them."

Well. That explained a lot. "Right. Lead the way, then?"

She glanced to Ron again. "Would it be outrageous of me to wonder why you need a chaperone?"

Harry performed an exaggerated shrug. "Beats me."

Ron scowled at them both, and she had that look about her again. The one where she seemed to want to say something entirely different than what she ended up saying: "Well, more the merrier, then. This way."

There was an acute awkwardness that clung around their small group as they descended to the dungeons. Things were strained enough with just the two of them, but the added "Ron" element was no help at all. He was sullen and mute, casting a dark pallor over their trip downward. Harry wasn't sure if he would have felt comfortable making conversation, even without Ron there.

Beyond the Potion classroom was a short, dead-end hallway lined on either side with doors, six in total. Croft approached one, clearly pronouncing, " _Heath milkwort._ "

The door clicked open, allowing them entrance. The inside was sparse, the workroom simply a little square box with a rectangular table in the center. Four chairs were messily arranged about it, and there was a patch of stone wall that was charred.

"Take a seat wherever," Croft announced as she pulled her outer robes off her shoulders.

Harry did as he was told, plopping his bag on the tabletop in a manner which ended up sounding far too loud in the small room.

After taking a seat herself, she looked to Ron again, who had taken position against the wall, arms crossed. "You sure you don't want to sit?"

When Harry glanced up at his friend, it was to witness Ron's scowl. "Yeah. I'm sure."

"All right then," Croft said, though it seemed more to herself than anyone else. In a moment, she pulled what looked like a stack of note cards from her bag, as well as the Advanced Potion Making text.

Her lesson started with an apology. "I'm sorry for the Chemistry text thing. I don't really know what I was thinking. Must've slugged through hours of that, huh?"

Harry pulled it from his bag, looking sheepish. "Er… actually, I uh… hardly looked at it."

"Fair enough," Croft sighed as she looked at the cover.

"I mean- I tried! I really did," Harry mentioned. "It's just… a lot of it was…"

"Technical, dry, overwhelming?" she listed, casual. "Yeah, I figured. I tend to forget that the way I learn isn't always… useful to other people, you know?"

"Yeah," he agreed, handing her the book. "Plus, I think it was just a touch out of my league… I mean, I only went to a few years of primary school, so I couldn't understand even half the words."

She appeared instantly regretful. "Oh, God. Right. I'm sorry."

Harry's nod was absent-minded. "It's fine." His gaze flicked to Ron, who was just watching them. "So. Hermione had me catch up on some readings while I was helping her study, but… not really sure where to start."

"That's fine. Considering all this, I feel maybe it's best for me to start this off by asking you: What methods have sort of helped you learn material in the past? Reading may not be your strong point - but do you do okay with listening? Or maybe you learn with visuals?"

"Huh." Harry frowned, pensive. "I guess I never really thought about it."

"For me, I'm better with visuals. And I also do really well when I can relate certain concepts to others I'm more familiar with," she gestured to the book. "Hence the Chemistry text-"

Ron cut in abruptly. "What the hell is this _Chemistry_ you keep talking about?"

Croft looked bewildered that Ron had even said anything. "It's, uhm," she faltered. "The study of matter and how substances either combine or separate, or interact with energy- you know, the study of molecules and atoms and elements and chemicals-"

"It's like Alchemy," Harry intoned, shooting his friend a look. "Nothing _sinister_ about it."

Ron huffed. "Not _yet,_ anyway."

Harry rolled his eyes, turning back to Croft. "Don't mind him."

"I don't," she returned softly, her hand digging through her bag. She paused as she pulled out a few items from her bag, placing them behind the spine of the Potions text. "About your learning? I'd hazard a guess you enjoy kinetic things. You do well at Professor Tenenbaum's practicals… and you're on the Quidditch team, yeah?" She looked him over. "Do you prefer being active? Working with your hands? Find it easier to remember stuff if you've actually gone through the motions yourself? Stuff like that?"

Harry shrugged. "Suppose so."

Croft opened the front cover of the Potions text. "Because Potions, especially at advanced levels, is all a game of memorization. And I'm guessing sitting there staring at the book and just trying to brute force the instructions into your head hasn't been doing the trick so far."

"No, not really," he grumbled, glum. "But I've got to suck it up if I want to get through these N.E.W.T.s, clearly."

She didn't respond for a moment as she thumbed through the pages, engrossed. "Well," she exhaled. "When I was struggling a bit with studying for my A&P exams, I found what ended up clicking for me was hanging up one of my dad's old anatomy posters on my wall, and then identifying the parts I needed to by sticking little Post-It notes on them." She bit her lip, uncertain, before looking his way. "Not that Potions has any sort of visual we can utilize, but the principle is the same. So."

She scooted closer toward him, pushing the text his way as she grabbed the note cards and placed them in front of him. "I'm pretty sure Snape is going to have us on a Draught of Living Death this week. So we can start there. First off, you're just going to list each ingredient and step on its own card, so we'll have a little stack of them. You can use my pen-" He noticed, just then, that she had a small stack of them piled in the area where the text had previously occupied. Reaching for one, she pulled the cap off, before stopping.

Her eyes drifted to Ron and, in a measured shift, rose slightly from her seat and bent over the tabletop, holding the uncapped pen in his direction. "You want to check them first?" she offered, diplomatic.

His expression markedly suspicious, Ron did, indeed, snatch the pen from her grasp. "What is it?" he demanded.

Harry scowled. "It's a _pen-_ You've seen them before!"

"Yeah, but this one looks _different_."

Exasperated, he said, "Of course it does, there's all sorts! But it's still _just a pen!_ "

Taking the thing from his friend's grasp, movements snappy with his irritation, Harry poised it over a notecard. For several seconds, he sat frozen in that position, before he turned to confess: "Er… I haven't got a clue what's in the Draught of Living Death."

Croft's smile was rather tender as she pushed the text closer to him and tapped her finger on the page it was open to. "Figured not. You can copy off."

Then, unexpectedly, and in a way that struck him as oddly _conversational,_ she looked at Ron. "How do you know about pens?"

Harry surveyed Ron's reaction. His friend merely shrugged, mumbling his answer. "My dad works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office."

"Oh, that's cool, actually," she replied, breezy. "I don't know much about that, but I imagine it's an interesting job."

Ron's only reply was a short grunt.

"Okay," she muttered under her breath, clearly picking up on his reluctance to talk. She leaned forward, pulling the Chemistry text open, but only to fiddle with the pages, it seemed.

Harry paused his surveillance to return to the task at hand. The pen glided against the cards much smoother than a quill, a sensation he was immediately grateful for. Still, even the task of writing the ingredients was frightfully dull. _Seven litres of water, one litre of infusion of wormwood, five ounces African sea salt, one hundred ounces of powdered root of asphodel, one full sloth brain, juice of twelve sopophorous beans, three valerian roots, seed of lily of the valley…_

"Wait, what's-" He squinted at it again. "Lily of the Valley?"

Croft fielded that one quickly, without looking up from the passage she was reading in the textbook. "They're poisonous flowers. Very pretty. They're small and their petals are kind of hunched over, like little bells."

"Oh. Right," Harry muttered, staring down at the name. "That's… yeah. Suppose that makes sense."

Croft did look up that time, a bit perplexed. "How do you mean?"

He waved her off, his mouth at a sullen slant. "It's nothing. Just… you know. Just kind of stupid, really."

"I don't consider any question stupid," she replied.

"Not really a question," Harry prefaced. "It's just… my mum's name. Lily. So… I don't know. Seems a bit strange to see it around a textbook, even if it is just the name of a flower."

The look she gave him was… odd. He didn't quite know what to make of it, not even when she answered with a soft and vague, "Oh."

"Yeah, like I said," his voice meandered, embarrassed. "Nothing important."

She brought her attention back to the book in front of her. "If it means something to you, then it's important." She didn't let this phrase hang, however. Moments after, she tapped the page she was on again, reminding him, "Be sure to put the steps for brewing on their own cards, too."

"Right." He was grateful for the distraction. In no time at all, he had completed the remaining fragments of instructions, laying them out on the table in haphazard mounds. Ron, for his part, was surveying all this with a dour mien, arms folded where he was stationed against the wall.

Croft gathered the notes he'd written, piling them on one another like a deck of cards. "So, this will be simple. You're going to take these note cards, and you're going to assemble them in the correct order for the potion. You can use the book until you feel confident enough to make an attempt without looking. The point is to associate the movement to memory. To be honest, it'd also help if you maybe did something as you set the cards down in the correct order. Something like a tap, maybe. Step one, one tap. Step two, two taps. So on and so forth."

Harry took hold of the stack, fidgeting with the corners of the parchment. He placed the first two cards together: _Cut up all 12...,_ and _Sopophorous beans_. Then, glancing up at her, he tapped a finger against the pair, unsure.

"I know it feels odd at first," she assured him, addressing a concern he hadn't voiced. "But I swear it'll tie into your muscle memory. And then during practicals, all it will take is for you to move your fingers and you'll remember the steps."

"Muscles don't have _memory,_ " came Ron's grumble from across the room.

"Not in a literal sense, no," Croft conceded, patient. "But your brain does. Moreover, you can train it to remember relationships between unrelated things. It's called associative memory."

"Well then, you won't be surprised when I use my _associative memory_ to tell you that I think this whole business is rubbish."

Harry paused his movements, giving Ron a look of exasperation. "Would you give it a rest? That doesn't even make sense."

Croft merely rested her head in her hand, leaning against the table as she watched him place down a couple more cards. "Well, I suppose it's a blessing for you that you're not _suffering_ under my tutelage."

His friend stared at him, earnest but frustrated. "Harry, I don't know what you're playing at, but there's no reason Hermione couldn't have helped you."

Harry grimaced. "I know that. I just… I asked Croft, okay? Give it a rest."

"You asked a Slytherin," he pointed out. "You know, the kind of nutters who have parents who want to kill you?"

"She's sitting _right there,_ you know!"

"Even if she _doesn't_ want you dead-" His gaze shifted to the side to glare at her. "- which I hardly find _likely_ \- even if that was true, what is the appeal of this… _this?_ " Ron gestured across the expanse of the room.

"I need tutoring?" Harry remarked, phrasing it like a question to demonstrate his utter confusion. "If I fail Potions, I can't be an Auror?"

His friend's eye roll was brief but snappy. "Oh, please."

"I know what you're going to say, but don't."

"You need to face facts, mate," Ron told him, putting a finger in his direction. "Nobody in their right mind gives two shites about what grade Snape gives you in Potions. If Harry Potter waltzes into the Auror Office in the middle of a dark wizard apocalypse, they aren't going to say no!"

"I don't _want-!_ "

"Look, I don't have a dog in this race," Croft interrupted, sounding annoyed for the first time. "You've been thoroughly heard; you don't approve of this set up. So, don't worry. By Friday, I'll be out of your hair entirely."

Harry's attention relocated to her. "Friday? What's Friday?"

"A presentation with Snape," she replied, shrugging. "If it falls through, I'm going home."

Ron huffed. "What's the worry? Snape is always _Guzzling the Gaudens_ for you Slytherins."

Harry shared a look of stunned bewilderment with Croft before he frowned at Ron. "He's _what_?"

The redhead squinted at them, seeming just as baffled by their lack of understanding. "Guzzling the- What, you mean you've never heard that?"

Unable to help it, Harry broke into breathy laughter. "No, of course not!"

Croft was apparently able to cobble together a vague understanding of Ron's statement. "He's not chomping at the bit to advise me, no. My standing as a 'Slytherin' has very little influence on that."

Ron scoffed. "Like I'm going to believe that."

"I don't really care whether you do or not," Croft countered, returning her attention to her book.

Harry cast his eyes toward her, surveying her as she expressionlessly kept on with her reading. Harry ventured, "So, er… you might be gone that soon, then?"

She turned a page. "I'm tired of disappointing my son," she threw out, casual. "So yeah. That soon."

His gaze flicked to Ron to examine his reaction to that bit of information, but there wasn't one at all. He simply stood, arms crossed, glaring over the proceedings. Turning back to her, Harry remarked, "I thought you might stay, after…"

He cut off, not really keen on bringing up the topic, even if his mouth was determined to act on his prying nature.

"After?" she inquired, glancing up at him.

Too late now to take it back, he mused with a slight grimace. "After that whole… you know. Slytherin thing, with Urquhart."

"Why would the protest make a difference?"

"Well, I mean- obviously it was in your favor," Harry pointed out. "The bloke singled you out and everything."

"To emphasize a point," she argued. "It wasn't about me. It was about showing discrepancy in Dumbledore's conduct. What the Headmaster is doing to Slytherin is nothing I agree with, but it's not where my head is at."

Ron puffed up at that. "Oh yeah? What've you got against Dumbledore, then?"

Croft squinted at him. "Nothing?"

Harry, hoping to temper whatever his friend might say about the topic, informed him, "It was just a thing on Friday where they blocked the hall, shouting about Montague and such. Didn't you hear about it?"

Ron shrugged. "Heard Malfoy got in another fight, but what else is new?"

That was certainly a point. "Yeah, put him in the Hospital Wing. Urquhart nearly smashed him to bits."

"Serves him right, the minted wanker."

"We're getting really off topic," Croft broke in, sighing. "Harry, you should focus."

Chagrined, Harry moved to return to his occupation, but Ron blew out a vindicated breath. "Oh _ho,_ " he said, fitting her with a suspicious glower. "Don't like it when we bad-mouth your good mate Malfoy, eh?"

Apparently well used to this by now, Croft rolled her eyes. "Malfoy? No. He can choke, for all I care."

Placing another two cards down on the table, Harry heard Ron say, "Oh, that definitely explains why you and him are having little _chats_ down in the dungeons-"

"He wasn't _chatting_ with me," Croft corrected him with an undercurrent of anger that hadn't been in her tone before.

"Fine, _whispering,_ then," Ron snapped back.

"He _threatened_ me," she asserted, her voice strained.

Rather than back down, Ron advanced the few steps toward the table with eyes narrowed. "Oh _yeah?_ " was his mocking retort. "What about?"

"I have no idea why it's any of your business," she replied, scowling.

"See?" Ron said to Harry, gesturing a hand in Croft's direction. "Already keeping secrets!"

"Oh, _come off it-_ "

"Slytherins don't just agree to tutor Harry Potter out of the _goodness of their hearts,_ Harry." He said this as if he very much doubted such a thing even existed. "Whatever it is they're scheming, I intend to sniff it out, even if _you_ won't."

"Even if Croft _was_ planning something, it would be _stupid_ to do it right off," Harry sighed, facing his friend fully. "It's just tutoring, and she's actually been _helpful_ this whole time, Ron. Unlike _you._ "

"Alright, fine," Croft sighed with displeasure, crossing her arms as she leaned toward Ron. "I give up. This is a complete wash. So just get on with it. Ask what you _bloody well_ want to ask."

Ron leaned over the table, his hands curled into fists. "Yeah? And how do I know you'll tell the truth?"

"I guess you won't," Croft volleyed, undaunted. "But considering the fact you won't allow Harry to do a damn thing until you're satisfied that I'm not the devil incarnate, we might as well get it over with."

There was a moment of deliberation where Ron stayed quite still before he ground out: "Alright." He leveled a glare at her. "Why'd you leave school?"

Harry tried to diffuse the ire that seemed to be crackling between them. "Ron, come on, don't do this…"

"I got pregnant," Croft admitted, deadpan.

Ron didn't reply, instead rapid firing another question: "How much money did you have to pay to get back in at Hogwarts?"

The laugh that oozed from her was baleful and harsh. "None. I was given permission for a temporary withdrawal."

"From _who_?"

"Who do you bloody think? The Headmaster."

"Why did you come back?"

She scowled. "I have a kid. I have to try to make a living somehow, don't I?"

"Haven't got a Daddy who's _pleased as punch_ to enroll you back in school just to get close to the Boy Who Lived?"

"He doesn't even know what that means; so, no."

His eyes narrowed. "Don't play _dumb,_ " he demanded. "Are you, or are you not, allied with Death Eaters?"

Harry cut in, alarmed, "Are you _daft,_ Ron? She's Muggleborn!"

His scoff was loud enough to fill the room. "You expect me to believe Slytherin's got Muggleborns, now? That whole tripe with 'enemies of the Heir beware' some misunderstood catchphrase? _Hm?_ "

"You know Salazar Slytherin has been dead for hundreds of years, right?" Croft mocked, caustic. "They do let rabble like us in now."

"You being _Muggleborn_ doesn't automatically clear your name," Ron maintained, stubborn.

"How in the world _wouldn't_ it?"

"You wouldn't be the first backstabber to be sorted into Slytherin," he shot back.

"Right, because jumping in bed with the same fascists who would want people like me executed would somehow be advantageous to me?" she argued, clearly disgusted.

"Had to have jumped in bed with _someone,_ " he commented, merciless. "So show me your arm."

She rolled up both her sleeves without hesitation and presented her pale - and notably _bare_ \- forearms on the table.

He sucked in a breath, clearly ready to say more, but Harry slammed both hands on the table, legs propelling him to stand. His friend flinched, clearly so on edge that even this slight outburst was able to startle.

"Ron. Outside. _Now._ "

He burst into the hallway ahead of his friend, waiting until the workroom door was closed before nearly shouting, "Are you completely _mental?_ What the hell was _that?!_ "

Ron bristled. " _She's_ the one who-!"

Without letting him finish, Harry continued, "Who in their right mind talks to a complete stranger like that? I don't like Slytherins either, but even I could have told you she wasn't a bloody Death Eater, Ron! In fact, we _met_ most of them, and something tells me she wouldn't exactly _fit in!_ "

Ron seemed to have caught on to how angry he was, his expression shifting to one of worry. "Look, mate, I'm just trying to-"

"I don't know what your problem is, but you need to _fucking think -_ for _once_ \- and realize how _way_ out of line you are!"

"Oh, so now I'm stupid," Ron spat with a glare. "I'm some kind of arsehole for wanting to protect my friend? Piss off, Harry!"

"Protect me from what?!" he shot back, irate. "Some girl with a baby? _Really?_ "

"We spent all last year being hounded by Slytherins, and then we got to almost be murdered by their parents too!" Ron heaved in a breath. "I'm not going to let that happen again!"

"What with you being such a _prat,_ if she hasn't hexed you yet, I doubt she ever will!"

Ron waved a dismissive hand. "You can't know for certain what bad people might do, Harry. I thought you might have _learned_ that after the last few years!"

Frustrated, Harry pressed his fingers over his eyes before sliding them away with a furious swipe. "I'm going to go back in, and you are going to keep your mouth shut, or get _lost._ Got it?"

"Well, I'm not letting you stay there alone. Especially considering-" He cut himself off, mouth pressed into a straight line.

Harry leveled a stare at him. "Considering what?"

"Considering she's… y'know…" He lowered his voice. "A _loose woman._ "

Harry closed his eyes against that statement, unable to deal with it. "Stop talking, Ron. Just stop."

"I'm coming with you," he insisted.

" _Fine._ Whatever."

Re-entering the room was a solemn affair. Croft answered the door when Harry knocked, but she barely looked at him, returning to her seat wordlessly. Ron took up an abandoned stool in the corner, folding his arms as Harry sat to continue his studying.

"Have you still got that pen?" he asked Croft, his voice feeling strange after all the shouting he'd done.

She pushed it toward him, eyes purposefully glued to her textbook. Muttering a thanks, his eyes went straight back to the recipe. The repetitive motions, the dry text before him, the blessed silence… all of it, eventually, quieted his ire.

And Ron, to his credit, said nothing more.

••••••••••

Taking a nap before his meeting with Dumbledore had seemed like a good idea at the time, but then, slogging his way up the steps, Harry felt a good deal worse than he had beforehand. Not to mention the fact that he was a few minutes late, even after all that rushing around he'd done in the dorms, stuffing his Invisibility Cloak in his bag at the last possible second.

He'd been mentally preparing his apology for the last ten minutes when his thoughts were interrupted by a disturbance within the Headmaster's office.

"... is _not_ sustainable, Albus!" Snape's angry voice emanated from the partially-open door. Harry's steps slowed and he lurked nearby, unable to resist eavesdropping when the opportunity was lying right at his feet.

The Headmaster spoke in a low voice, each of his words precise. "You, above all, should understand the danger residing within your House. Those children are susceptible-"

"If these children are anything like _me_ , then the only thing they are _susceptible_ to is extreme reaction to this kind of treatment-"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Well, that is the idea, Severus. I won't tolerate radical behavior in my school."

"Define 'radical', because the children of Death Eaters are not the only ones you are attacking," Snape retorted.

Were they… arguing? This simple fact helped to rouse Harry somewhat, and he shifted his weight, leaning just far enough to peer inside at the two men.

The Headmaster was sitting behind his desk, brow furrowed. "These aren't attacks; they are precautionary measures. Slytherin has long been home to predatory individuals-"

" _Individuals;_ not the whole." The professor shifted his weight, agitated. "If you take issue with a few, then punish _them!_ Expel them, if you have to. Alienating the rest is foolhardy in the extreme."

"The goal is not to get rid of them, Severus," Dumbledore stated calmly. "But they must understand what is and is not acceptable. The influence of indoctrinated children must be diminished, so that the rest may thrive."

"They aren't thriving," Snape spat, disgusted. "And the more restrictions you place, the greater their will to break those chains will be."

"They are Slytherins, and as such, they understand power," the Headmaster said, adjusting his spectacles. "They will come to accept this situation; those most well-behaved will be duly rewarded and purists will be separated from the rest."

"Do you hear yourself?" Snape's accompanying gesture was jerky, carrying with it a mountain of frustration. "They are children. _Children._ "

"Children grow into adults, Severus." The Headmaster's tone was harsh with reprimand. "Adults who must understand the enemy they are up against, should they decide to follow the dark path. Hogwarts has too long allowed Slytherin House the freedom to nurture evil. I will endure it no further."

"You cannot just _intimidate_ - _!_ "

"The matter is not up for discussion," Dumbledore silenced him. "My decision is final."

There was a moment of quiet. Snape straightened himself, hands placed carefully at his sides. Then, with an accompanying snort, he remarked, "The consequences be on your head, then."

Harry, sensing that nothing further would be said, gently knocked on the door frame. "Professor? Can I come in?"

Snape's gaze snapped in his direction, and the Headmaster called for him to enter, voice leagues warmer than it had been a minute before. "Ah, Harry," Dumbledore addressed him as he walked in. "How are you? Classes going well, I presume?"

"Yeah," Harry commented, eyes flicking in Snape's direction of their own accord. "Fine."

"Good to hear, good to hear… I trust Miss Granger is now fully mended?"

Oh, right. He hadn't talked to Dumbledore since he'd tried to file a complaint against Snape. Frowning, Harry did his level best not to look at the man standing nearby. "She is, yeah."

"I knew Madam Pomfrey was sure to take good care of her."

Awkward, Harry replied with another "yeah". Wasn't much else he could say to that under present circumstances, was there?

"Well, I imagine you'll be wanting to head out soon. Your first destination is a bit of a walk."

That perked him up. "Really? Where is it?"

"Professor Snape will be taking you to… another safehouse, of sorts. It is located in Dartmoor but, by nature of its protections, Apparition is restricted to some distance away from the building itself."

"Makes sense," Harry remarked, thoughtful. "Dartmoor… Isn't that pretty… remote?"

Dumbledore drew in breath to reply, but Snape was the one who spoke first. "I see your knowledge of geography is not entirely hopeless," he sneered, the compliment as backhanded as they came. "But regardless, we are losing time with this inane chatter."

While the Headmaster did not seem happy with Snape's tone, he appeared to agree with the sentiment. "A word of advice, Harry," Dumbledore broached, gesturing toward the fireplace as he spoke. "Choose your words carefully when speaking to the caretaker of this safehouse."

Perplexed, Harry asked, "Why?"

The older man brushed a hand through his beard. "She does not take kindly to strangers."

••••••••••

Harry and Snape had been walking for roughly ten minutes before either of them said a word. Even then, it was only so the professor could reprimand him.

"What do you think you are doing?"

Having just taken out his wand, Harry cast an annoyed glance in Snape's direction. "It's the middle of the night in pitch dark marshland, and it's _raining_ hard enough to soak me through. Can't even see where I'm walking, much less what's beyond a few meters ahead!"

"Need I explain to you, _once again,_ the laws against underage magic?"

" _No,_ but if you're not going to light the way, I'm at least going to defend myself against whatever's out here."

"'Whatever is out here'?" Snape echoed, mocking. "I am simply fascinated that the Boy Who Lived is afraid of ponies, sheep, and fish."

"Well!" he huffed. "Aunt Petunia was always on about 'wild country' having bears and wolverines…" _Not that she was really a reliable source,_ Harry thought, his voice petering out with that realization.

"Put your wand _away_ ," came Snape's demand. "You are more likely to encounter a Muggle than a wild animal, and in either case, magic is not advised."

With a sigh, he did as he was told, though his apprehension persisted. There was silence between them for another fifteen minutes. Harry was wet and cold, but it was useless to complain about it. Snape wasn't going to care; he would probably say something about how his discomfort was evidence that Harry was a rubbish Order member, and he should just give it up…

His feet sloshed on the muddy ground, trodding over long grass and sodden heather. The landscape was lit only by the small sliver of moonlight that peeked out of the clouds at odd intervals. Whenever it did, Harry could make out that they were traversing a wide heath, swooping hills making the countryside appear like gentle waves in a sea of grass. Distantly, he could just barely spot a forest treeline, but he and Snape weren't heading in that direction.

Curiosity getting the best of him, Harry inquired, "I don't see any houses or buildings… Is it really that far off?"

The man did not look his way as he replied, "It is hidden."

Oh. Of course. "Still, bit out-of-the-way for a safehouse."

"It isn't a true safehouse," Snape told him.

Harry frowned. "How d'you mean?"

"Let's just say, you're 'safer' without than within."

That wasn't helpful at all, but Harry lapsed back into silence for a time. His foot sunk into a surprisingly deep puddle, causing him to stumble before righting himself.

Harry groused, "Any reason we're slogging it in this downpour?"

The other man's sneer was evident in his tone. "I seem to recall the Headmaster informing you about the Apparition wards, or were you not paying attention yet again, Potter?"

A sneer slashed across Harry's face as he glared at the professor. "I know _that;_ I meant who we're supposed to be talking to, and why."

" _You_ will not be talking. It's been made abundantly clear how abysmal conversations turn out whenever you open your mouth."

He didn't appreciate the slight, casting a glare at Snape as they crested another grassy knoll. "Going to 'play nice' again?" he questioned, derisive.

The man shot him a displeased look, but did not reply.

"Is this about the missing girl? Because I thought she lived in Cardiff."

"No," was his retort.

"No what? That this is about her, or that she lived in Cardiff?"

Snape's expression was on all levels annoyed. "This _visit_ is to inquire about the wards surrounding your summer home," he explained through gritted teeth.

"Oh, are there-?"

A quick, withering glare silenced him. "No more questions."

Harry deflated, stare affixed to the slick toes of his boots. They traversed in quiet for several minutes, with nothing but the muffled impacts of raindrops on vegetation to accompany them. He should have felt peaceful, should have felt like this journey across the landscape was a respite. But, this was a sort of quiet that Harry was seldom exposed to, accustomed to both the Dursley's loud lifestyle and the crowded bustle of Hogwarts. Even though on some level he could appreciate the sound of empty air, he experienced a companion feeling of bone-deep unease.

"I've never been somewhere like this," he found himself saying.

The other man did not reply, though he did slant a look in his direction as a gust of wind blew past them, strong enough to momentarily stagger Harry.

"I mean, I've been to Dartmoor once, but that was just for the Quidditch World Cup. And, er… that… didn't quite work out."

Harry scratched the side of his face, recalling the image of the Dark Mark in the cloudy sky and debating the wisdom of talking about this with _Snape,_ of all people. "There's country around Hogwarts, but it's not really the same," he changed the subject. "There's still loads of buildings and people around. Plus, I'm never allowed to be on my own anyway, so… yeah."

To his surprise, there came a response: "What a _tragic_ existence you must lead, to never be alone."

This comment, though laced with ridicule, held a note of something else. Perhaps it was due to Harry's inability to see the man's expression, or the gentle wind howling past his ears, but Snape's pronouncement seemed… almost bitter.

He scowled, "Yeah, I _get_ it. 'The poor Boy Who Lived complains about being surrounded by people who love him', is that it? Well, that's not even what I'm talking about, so _stuff_ it, for once."

He expected a scathing reply, but did not receive one.

Then, "We are here," Snape suddenly announced.

Harry stumbled to a halt. In front of them was a monument of some sort; there were many stone slabs jutting up from the ground, all arranged in two wide circles side-by-side. The stones were spaced far apart, some missing from the circumference of the circle they were a part of, standing like sentries in the untamed grass.

"What is this place?"

Snape turned toward him, his drenched hair sliding heavily across his shoulder. "The Grey Wethers. A tourist landmark for Muggles."

Using his wand, he, strangely, cast a wordless Four Points spell. The wand spun towards North in his hand before he addressed Harry once more. "With luck, you'll never come back to this place again, but if you ever do…"

His eye contact was piercing. " _Never_ enter the north circle."

Glancing between the man's wand and the circle in question, Harry replied with a small, "Right."

Snape headed toward the southern circle, and Harry followed, eyes straining around to survey any dangers that might be lurking. When they crossed over inside the circle itself, he spotted something strange. At the very center, where they were headed, there seemed to be nothing but air. However, Harry could just barely observe a strange phenomenon; the grass surrounding seemed to shimmer before his eyes and shift sideways just a titch.

"Is… Is the building disillusioned?"

Snape glanced over his shoulder to level Harry with a look of scrutiny. "No."

"Oh. Well, I just thought, since the grass was kind of… off."

The man paused before saying, "The entrance is disillusioned, but the house itself is not."

Harry nodded, watching the ground as they drew closer to the center. A pile of rocks slithered into view, mirage-like. Wait, not a pile of rocks; it was a small rectangle of irregular stone, like a rustic welcome mat. Beside that was a single door, standing upright and solitary in the long grass, seeming to lead nowhere.

Intrigued but wary, he looked to Snape for further instruction. The man said nothing, but approached himself, opening a small metal box which was affixed to the wood of the door. Craning his neck, Harry watched as Snape pulled a rubber stamp from the box.

Then, without warning, the professor used his wand to create a wide gash across his palm. Harry frowned, watching as blood welled up from the cut. Snape, for his part, barely reacted, except to dip the stamp into his hand before marking the door with a blood-filled symbol.

The image vanished before Harry could get a proper look at it, but, in response, the door opened inward. Snape prompted him to approach and, despite how disturbing the last minute had been, Harry obeyed. Wasn't like he could refuse, anyway.

The door, he came to realize upon entering, lead to an astonishing amount of wizardspace. The room they walked into was not large, but the house appeared to be roughly the size of a smallish cottage, despite there only being a doorframe on the outside. His first impression was a strong smell of herbs and mold, powerful enough to cause Harry's eyes to water. Before them was a derelict living room, decorated with mismatched, worn furniture and cobwebs. There was no fireplace, but there did appear to be a handful of disembodied lights that floated around the space, and a pit filled with blackened wood, over which a large, empty cauldron sat. Where Harry presumed a kitchen would normally be, there was instead a vast array of counters and cabinets, arranged messily together. An absurd amount of dirty glass jars was on every available surface, filled with various plant matter, animal parts, glowing liquids, and other oddities. The tools atop the counter looked like they were meant to be used for potions, but they were hand-hewn from stone and wood, primitive.

The room was dark, except for a single lit candle atop a nearby table, and it was by that light that Harry saw their host emerge from another room to greet them.

He noticed first that the woman was attired in all black, the lace fringes of her dress torn and frayed, and she had long, thin fingers which ended in jagged, soot-stained nails. His second realization was that she was… _pretty_. Her face, youthful and ghostly pale, was hitched up into a calculating smirk, eyes lined darkly, as if she had shrouded them in smoke.

Though there was an aura of disarray about the woman and her dwelling, there was an equally powerful sense of vigor and fearlessness to her attitude, as if they had wandered, unwittingly, into the territory of a cloistered beast.

And when she spoke, it was with a voice deep, clear, and emphatic. "So nice of you to drop in, Severus." Her gaze turned presently to Harry. "But you know I don't allow strays."

"Then I suppose it is _lucky_ that everyone here is spoken for," he retorted, dry.

"You people always are," the woman sneered, dirty teeth peeking through her lips.

Snape was unsympathetic. "We are here on Dumbledore's orders."

She rolled her eyes, the motion further exaggerated as it continued down her neck and across her shoulders. " _Ob_ -viously."

Turning toward her collection of jars, she beckoned a cloudy glass vial to her hand with only a hooked finger, plucking it out of the air with practiced accuracy. Then, her hooded gaze fell in their direction once more.

Holding herself regally, she held up the vial. "Pay the price, Severus," was her prompt as her long nails clinked the glass.

Harry, confused, cast a look in the professor's direction, but he was already moving. Striding purposefully, Snape produced a small vial of his own from his robes, placing it on the table beside them with a clack of finality. Within, Harry could spot a thick, deep red liquid. Like… blood. He grimaced, feeling as if he'd seen too much of it tonight already.

The woman's eyes narrowed. "Don't think you can swindle me. You know I need it _fresh_."

"I think you will find it is preserved to your liking," Snape countered, unrelenting. When the woman remained displeased, he raised his eyebrows, feigning ignorance. "Did you think to collect mine?" With a light scoff, his voice hardened. "I hardly think this small favor is worth that much."

With a disdainful sniff, she snatched Snape's vial from the tabletop. "Perhaps you should ask for less _boring_ favors, then."

"And allow you the satisfaction? I think not."

Harry, unable to keep quiet any longer, inserted his words between them, "What is going _on?_ "

Snape shot him a warning look. Right. No talking. With a grimace, he clammed up once more, but it was too late; their host seemed quite pleased at this outburst. In a flash, her eyes were raking and turning him over, exploratory. Then, a moment later, she glanced to Snape again, her head jerking toward him in a fashion so jilted and fierce that it reminded him of Bellatrix. His stomach churned, unsettled, as a spike of panic sang through his muscles.

"And _him?_ "

"Forget him."

"Severus, you can't seriously believe you can trounce such a _healthy_ and _youthful_ specimen in front of me and not expect me to notice?"

"Your powers of observation notwithstanding, he's not a commodity you can afford."

Her finger flicked hard, the vial in her hands sputtering outward and clamoring to the ground with a delicate _crash_ as it broke into pieces on the ground. The woman remained in the same position, eyes locked on Snape, a challenge. "The price just went up," she announced, blasé, her hand perching itself just under her breast.

Snape's gaze narrowed. "You are in no position to negotiate."

She was unfazed by his threat, a wiry eyebrow lifting as she leaned back against a nearby counter. "Aren't I?"

In the space of a blink, the scene before Harry was entirely changed. Where Snape had been lingering near the door, he had progressed to directly beside the woman, wand brandished and posture tense. For her part, where her stance had been languid, attitude haughty, it had morphed into watchful amusement.

A shrill, tinkling sound pierced through the air, emanating from a dark corner of the sitting room. His gaze darting there on instinct, Harry felt the hair of his arms stand on end as he spotted the outline of an enormous, shadowed beast, its two milky white eyes fixed on the encounter. The creature lifted itself up, revealing its houndlike form, but when its muzzle opened in a menacing contortion, he saw that its mouth was filled with layers of razor-like teeth. The wiry black fur on its back was like a cloak of darkness, obscuring the line between the creature and the gloom. The room was small enough that Harry could feel the creature's hot breath, could see the way its throat contracted as another sound, like the toll of a bell, rang from it more clearly than the first.

If he had once been frightened by the visage of his godfather's animal form, it was nothing compared to this. He'd been exposed to many depictions of what Trelawney had called _The Grim,_ but this creature surpassed even those horror-filled images.

The woman's voice lanced the air with a hollow _tsk_ -ing sound. "In my own _home,_ Severus?" she mocked, feigning disappointment.

"Is this truly the hill you wish to die on?" Snape countered, unflinching. "Honor your agreement, _wretch,_ or we are done here."

"You are welcome to leave," the woman murmured, silky and unperturbed. "And I can sell this information to a more _considerate_ buyer-"

"So be it," he announced, turning abruptly on his heel to head toward the door.

Harry tensed, looking between the two of them. He knew he wasn't supposed to talk, but… didn't they need that information? The Dursleys may be awful, but he didn't exactly want them _dead_ just because Harry was who he was; if some Death Eaters had gone and tampered with the house, the Order ought to know about it, shouldn't they?

"I will pay the price if he won't," he said before he'd even made the conscious decision to, meeting the woman's eyes. Snape's form froze beside him, but Harry kept his solemn focus.

"Will you?" the woman purred, taking a small stride toward him. "What a good boy."

Abruptly, the professor grabbed hold of his forearm, his grip crushing. "You will do no such thing."

On instinct, Harry flinched away, squirming out of the man's reach. "You're the one always on about how useless I am!" he accused. "I'm not _stupid;_ it's just a little blood!"

"You have no idea-"

"What does it matter?" Harry glared at him. "Everyone wants a piece of me. Pretty well used to it by now."

In fact, thinking about it, this was probably what Dumbledore had intended anyway. After all, there was never going to be a scenario where Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived walked into a witch's den anonymously, leaving just as auspiciously as he came. His name, his scar, his blood… It was always by this currency that he lived. And, most likely, it was by that currency that he would die.

He stepped forward, rolling up his damp sleeve. "Right. Let's get this over with."

The way she gripped him was ravenous, her touch rough, finger pads smoothing over his forearm. She didn't look up at Snape when she addressed him once more. "Severus. Out."

"Absolutely not."

"I only meet with customers," she asserted, smooth.

"Your deal was with Dumbledore, not the boy," Snape argued, a hard edge to his tone.

"And if Albus Dumbledore wishes to complete the transaction himself, he is free to," she informed him.

"That was _not_ the-"

"Must I repeat myself?" the woman asked, a wistful sigh escaping her. "As you can see, I am with a patron now, Severus." Her head tilted, a calculated gleam glimmering in her eye. "And you know my rule about strays."

Following this was an eerie silence. When Harry looked at the man, he was standing very still, wet hair dripping on his shoulders. There was a strange aura to his lack of movement, as if the air were charged with some wild _intent;_ contained, but only just.

Just then, her voice drifted over Harry's head, landing just a few feet behind him: " _Liebchen,_ " Harry watched as her head jerked in Snape's direction. " _Pass auf._ "

The great beast stalked forward, heaving a rattling breath, its gaze pinpointed on Snape, threatening.

"Five minutes." Those two words were expelled from the professor with such acute malice that Harry felt an urge to shrink away. "Five minutes, else I feed your _corpse_ to that pet of yours."

She didn't appear one whit intimidated. Her hand lifted to wave at him, dismissive, shooing him out of the house. The creature's mouth unhinged again, the sound of bells frothing out, still encroaching on the professor's space as the woman began to roughly pull Harry closer to the counter.

It was only when Harry heard the woosh of a door close behind him that she decided to speak again. " _Much_ better. Now, hold still-"

Holding out a hand, Harry watched as a cloud of black smoke crashed against her ragged fingers and a wand emerged from the dissipated mist. It was a gnarled branch, grey and craggy, twisting out from the end of her arm as if it was a natural part of her form. He looked on with trepidation as she brought it close to his skin.

A surge of fear seeping into his veins, Harry interrupted her. "Before you do this-" His voice was stilted, but clear. "Tell me your name."

She rose an eyebrow at him. "Lovelle."

He huffed, eyeing her critically. "Seriously? That's it?"

"Would you prefer a bit of flair?" she derided. "They call me the Mire Enchantress. The Moor Witch. Mother of Mist. Name whispered on every leaf, every breeze, every creeping thing that writhes in the mud - _blah, blah._ "

He shrugged with a sideways glance. "Your type always seems to like being _dramatic._ "

"My type," she repeated, slightly intrigued. "And tell me, little stray: What do you think _my type_ is?"

"The type who wants to see me bleed," Harry countered, looking at her dead on.

A high pitched chuckle rumbled in the back of her throat. "That so?"

He opened his mouth to speak, however in a second she swiped the tip of her wand in a sharp slant against the inside of his elbow, catching him off guard. The pain was nominal - he'd had worse before - but the blood rushed from his arm in thick rivulets, dripping into a clay basin beneath.

It felt strange, to watch and let it happen. There was a certain way about it that allowed him some detachment, perhaps because he had instigated this himself, given his blessing. There was a certain power to it, even if it was unpleasant. In a way, it was reminiscent of that day in class… Croft patching up the over-deep wound he'd carved in his own arm, spouting knowledge about things that he barely understood. What had she called it? The brachial artery? Maybe that was why he was bleeding so incredibly fast.

Even so, there was none of the practiced care Croft possessed in his current circumstance; Lovelle held his arm in a vice-like grip, as if she were ready to squeeze every last drop out of him. He lifted his eyes back to the woman, seeing the veritable _hunger_ in her expression. "Alright, you got what you wanted. Now tell me what you know."

"Down to business," Lovelle complimented, straightening herself. "You comport yourself very well, little stray. Like another stray I used to know."

"Here's hoping that whoever they are, you didn't bleed _them_ dry too."

She chuckled again. "Remus was about as agreeable as you," she commented, dry, as she turned his elbow upward to stem the flow of blood.

His mind stuttered to a halt, the shock radiating to the tips of his fingers. "Remus _Lupin?_ You know him?"

"Of course," she answered, sticking the tip of her wand in between his squeezed muscles. A muted word passed between her lips, and he could feel the wound righting itself, before she withdrew the wand, the bark of it stained with his blood. "I know just about everyone in that little flock of yours."

"Of _course_ you do," Harry echoed, not really happy about it.

The woman bent toward him to collect the clay bowl. "You can tell Severus that the anchors are _indeed_ attached to the residents of the home, as he believed," she hoisted the bowl onto the counter with great care. "However, things begin to get a bit tricky after that. There is no physical foundation, not that I could find. And the ward was cast wandlessly, so finding the source will be difficult, if not completely impossible."

His brow furrowed in thought. "So, a dead end," he surmised, frowning.

"Yes and no," she answered, turning toward him slightly. "You can also tell him that the parameters of the ward were very strict. The residents of the home were not allowed to touch the person whom the ward protected, and the ward also caused the residents to forget the protected person whenever they were not in sight."

Harry listened to the whole of her pronouncement, a strange, undefinable feeling welling up in his chest. Afraid to ask, he prompted, "Who is the protected person?"

With a silent flourish of her wand, she began to siphon his blood into several vials, which lined themselves up on the tabletop. "You, presumably," she said, blithe. "It is your home, is it not?"

 _Great,_ even this woman he'd never met knew where he was during summers! He had to think it absurd for Dumbledore to be so intent on secrecy, while he was practically giving out Harry's address!

"Do you know how long the ward has been there?" he asked, mostly to deflect.

"Only this past summer," she informed, droll. "I must say, it _was_ a rather simple job. I was surprised your lot contacted me over something an entry level _Auror_ could easily accomplish."

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug as she finished sealing off the last of the vials, using her wand to direct their movement as they seated themselves primly on a nearby shelf. "But I suppose little could be done, considering."

This, of everything she'd said, was most perplexing. Harry knew there were _actual_ Aurors in the Order, which meant that she was either exaggerating, or something more was afoot. It pricked at his curiosity, prompting him to ask, "Considering what?"

"Well, there wasn't much of a choice once Remus decided to up and disappear and abandon the only job he was good for, was there?"

Harry sucked in a breath. "What-?!"

She clicked her tongue, glancing toward the door. "Time's up," she announced, waving a hand. Harry felt an invisible force wrap around his middle and, like a relentless gust of wind, propel him backwards toward the door, which swung open against the wall behind him with a bang directly before he was thrown to the murky ground.

Rain pelted his face as he rushed to stand, and he caught the barest glimpse of Lovelle, surveying her prize to the sound of a ringing bell, before the heavy door slammed closed in his face.

"Hey-!" Harry pounded his fist into the door, though it had little impact. "You can't just say that and kick me out!"

"Potter?" Snape was standing nearby with arms crossed, wand gripped in one hand beneath his elbow. His robes were soaked, hair in scraggly clumps, and his face was as inscrutable as ever.

"I don't care what Dumbledore told you to say, you tell me right now-!" Harry demanded, walking right up to the man. "Is Remus missing?"

Snape stared at him, unmoving. Then, the moment he drew breath, Harry warned, " _Don't_ lie. I need to know."

"You don't _need_ to know anything," the man retorted, his eyebrows drawing lower in anger.

"He's my-" Teacher? Mentor? An old mate of his father's? What exactly was he? Harry shook his head, clearing those thoughts away. "He's my friend. If something happened to him, I want to know about it."

Snape regarded him with displeasure before his eyes slid away, dragging across the countryside. "Tell you what, Potter," he remarked, conversational. "You give me the information you received from Lovelle, and I'll consider providing what you want."

"You'll _consider_ it?" Harry spat, disgusted. "Nice try, but no."

The professor snorted, pocketing his wand. "Suit yourself."

With that, he began walking back the way they came. Harry, irritated, gave the door beside him one last kick before following after, shoving his hands in his pockets.

It was raining even harder, then, like the previous drizzle had only been a warmup. Harry had to repeatedly wipe his glasses with a damp sleeve to keep the back of Snape in sight. Still, he at least knew the distance they had to travel, having walked it once already. It would only have to be endured for some twenty minutes.

He trudged along in sullen silence, staring at Snape's boots. It wasn't like he'd been considering withholding information that the Order so obviously needed, but now that the man had made it a point of contention, Harry wanted nothing more than to keep it all to himself just to spite him. "Tit for tat" his Uncle Vernon would say. Though, perhaps following _any_ philosophy that a man like Vernon favored was, in and of itself, a bad idea.

Yet, how could he help it? His heart and mind were still racing, not only from his crushing worry for Remus, but from all the rest of it- watching his own blood drain out of him, fighting with Ron, navigating the awkward situation with Croft, witnessing Malfoy's increasingly violent attitude, his spat with the missing girl's parents, the endless antagonism from Snape that he was enduring on a near constant basis… not to mention, the ominously specific wards on Privet Drive. His brain felt filled to the brim, close to bursting. Yet here was Snape, petty as ever, refusing to so much as utter a simple confirmation about whether Remus was around or not!

The further he walked ,though, the more he realized that Snape wasn't the real problem; Dumbledore was. It wasn't Snape who had started the year by proclaiming there would be no more lies, no more secrets between them. It wasn't Snape who had made promises that weren't kept, or professed his care and concern while his actions said the opposite. Despite there being no verifying word said on the matter, Harry knew that Remus must truly be missing; the fact that the professor refused to speak was confirmation enough. And, contemptible as the man was, it wasn't Snape who had kept this from him, it was Dumbledore.

That, more than anything, set his blood boiling.

When Snape finally stopped in the midst of what seemed like just another grassy hill, one of many that they had passed on the way, he wordlessly grabbed hold of the man's arm. A dense wind swept them away from that place, and Harry was glad to leave it behind.

••••••••••

They arrived in the same Cardiff alleyway they'd left from last time.

The nausea roiled through Harry, and he swallowed a few times, tamping it down as best he could. He'd expected Snape to have already been halfway down the sidewalk, but he was simply standing in the same spot, attention poised at the mouth of the alley, except now he was completely dry, his hair looking sort of strange and woolly.

Harry's was the opening remark. "We're not going back to Hogwarts?"

"Apparently not," the man jeered.

"Why? Aren't we supposed to report to Dumbledore?"

"Only the first of two errands have been completed," Snape informed him crisply. "There remains an ongoing investigation, despite your best efforts to sabotage it."

Harry glared at him. "Fine. Guess you want me to patch up things with the parents, then, even though I don't even remember what my fake name is supposed to be."

"It's Barrett," the man replied instantly, tone disdainful. "But you aren't going to need it."

He paused. "Why?"

Snape turned to face him more fully. "The Headmaster indicated that you have a propensity for trespassing where you are not wanted."

Harry's expression took an odd turn at that pronouncement, the mention of Dumbledore flaring his anger. "Excuse me?"

"Your task is to investigate the missing girl's room in secret, and report your findings to me."

"In… secret?" He frowned, that phrase not sitting right with him. "Why can't you just ask to see it?"

"After your indiscretion, it will require a disproportionate amount of grovelling to regain the Ayers's goodwill," Snape remarked flatly. "We do not have the luxury of wasting that time. And if they become disenchanted with our efforts, they could involve Muggle authorities, which will not only restrict access to the house, but magical evidence could be thoughtlessly erased."

Well, _sure_ , that all made sense, but… "You want me to break into their house," he muttered, uncomfortable. "After what I did before, you now want me to do something even _worse_?"

"It is not about 'worse' or 'better'," came the older man's annoyed reply. "It is about obtaining results, by whatever means necessary."

"I don't like that," Harry stated.

"If you do not _like_ it," the man sneered, "then you have no business being in this organization at all."

Frustrated, he snapped, "I didn't say I wouldn't do it!" He couldn't frame his thoughts, but there was something about the way Snape had said it that chafed. "Just- Let's just get on with it."

Snape stared him down for a moment before saying, "You will draw attention in your current state."

Harry looked down at himself, surveying his water-laden clothes, the mud smattered on his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. With a grimace, he held out his arms at his sides. "Well? I said get on with it, didn't I?"

The professor didn't seem keen on his tone, but he did murmur a drying charm which vanished every ounce of moisture from Harry's person. He blinked several times in succession, the charm so thorough that his eyes now felt pretty dried out. Running a hand through his hair, he tried to tame it to some semblance of neat, to little avail. When he looked up, Snape was staring at him.

"Anything else?"

The man looked away. "I trust you have that Invisibility Cloak of yours."

Of all the things that had happened that day, learning that Severus Snape knew about his cloak was the least important revelation he'd received of late, but it still managed to make an impact anyway. "Er…" He hesitated, despite it being a pointless gesture. "... Yes."

"And I imagine it goes without saying, what you will be using it for."

He wasn't an idiot. "Yeah," was all he said, rolling his eyes.

"Very well," Snape commented, raising his hands to his unruly hair to pull it back, as he had during their last visit. "Let anyone see you, and I will assign you a month of detention for each witness."

Throwing him an odd look, Harry said, "What? How is that supposed to work?"

"If I have to suffer through the painstaking process of Obliviation, then _you_ will be granted the privilege of suffering in equal measure."

Harry fell into step beside the man as he began walking, the route once again familiar. There were a few minutes of quiet in which it struck him that he preferred the noise of a quiet street, with the occasional passing car or blaring telly, to the howling nothingness of Dartmoor. The bright rings of light from the streetlamps passed by at regular intervals, keeping pace with them. It was a soothing rhythm, coupled with the subtle sounds of life around him. At some indeterminate point, Harry realized that he was feeling a great deal less pressurized.

And, with that, his pettiness seemed to have dissipated as well. "So. Lovelle said she doesn't know who set the ward, and it has no physical foundation, whatever that means."

Snape cast a glance in his direction. "It is a simple matter to trace the magic to its wielder, with access to the information she has," he replied, irked, though it seemed not to be directed at Harry himself for once.

He shrugged. "She said whoever it was, they didn't use a wand."

The professor's eyes narrowed at the road ahead of them. "Go on."

"Well," Harry ventured, "that's pretty much all she had to say about that. But she did mention, er, what exactly the ward did."

An eyebrow was lifted in his direction, and this time he was on the receiving end of that annoyance from earlier. "And?"

"She said… the ward was attached to the people in the house. That its… rules, I guess, were very strict, meant to uh… protect someone." He frowned, his tone shifting toward trepidation. "And that it prevented the Dursleys from touching that… person, made them forget them whenever they weren't around."

When Snape said nothing, Harry took in a breath, hoping to draw in strength as well. "And she said that, er, 'protected person' was probably me."

There was continued silence, causing Harry to look up at the older man. He was looking straight ahead, gaze reaching far away, mouth set in a frown, gait uninterrupted, but Harry couldn't place any of those observations together to form a cohesive whole.

"I mean, in that case it's probably not a big deal, right?" he asked, more to fill the air than anything. "It doesn't really do anything bad."

This prompted a sharp look from Snape. "How would allowing the people charged with your protection to forget you exist be 'not bad'?"

It was Harry's turn to fall quiet. What could he say, really? Any justification he could come up with would just cause the man to accuse him of being selfish and ungrateful, and he'd just plain rather not hear it.

Quite suddenly, he was struck by a strange feeling. Lightheaded, Harry was thrown off-kilter, wobbling under what felt like a Jelly-Legs Jinx. He stopped walking when he stumbled into the professor's side, drawing the man's attention in spectacular fashion.

"Potter?" he questioned, irritated, before his voice changed to something more stern. " _Potter,_ how much blood did you lose?"

Huh. Come to think of it, it had probably been… "A lot. I think?"

Snape grabbed hold of his arm, pulling up his sleeve. The touch was firm, purposeful. Harry was too woozy to object. "Where?" the professor prompted.

Rather than showing him, Harry parroted back his earlier thoughts, "Brachial artery."

Evidently, he needed no further explanation. "Of _course_ it was."

His hands left Harry's arm as he rummaged for… something. It was weirdly hard to focus. He kind of just wanted to lay down.

Then, quick as it came, the feeling left him. He still didn't feel _great,_ but he regained some small semblance of vigor. So, when Snape presented a little, bright-red vial for Harry to take, he refused.

"I'll be fine," he said, pulling in a deep breath. "Don't need it."

" _Drink it,_ you imbecile," the older man insisted, dangling it directly in Harry's line of vision.

With a sigh, he grabbed it, eyeing the contents. "What-?"

"Blood Replenishing Potion," Snape cut him off, impatient. "The last thing I want to do this evening is Apparate your unconscious body back to Hogwarts."

With a grimace, he did as he was told, shivering at the odd taste of copper. Then, he mentioned, "I really do feel fine."

" _Oh_ , what a relief that you feel _fine_ ," came Snape's acerbic retort. "I ordered you not to speak to her."

He frowned. "Well, we needed to know about the wards…"

"The information did not warrant a pint of blood," the older man pointed out.

"You were just going to leave without-!"

"The situation was well in hand before your absurd attempt at a 'noble sacrifice'," was the sneered reply. "It was foolish to set a precedent for _desperation_ in front of a woman like her."

"Like her?" Harry questioned, eyes narrowed.

"A cunning opportunist," Snape elucidated, snide. "The natural enemy to Gryffindors, it would seem."

He pulled a face, though another thought occurred to him, then. "Bit weird that I walked all that way without feeling anything."

"Adrenaline has the capacity to keep you standing," the professor filled him in. "But it should come as no surprise that the body requires blood to function properly."

Harry shrugged, the potion kicking in and making his face feel hot. As they continued walking, he thought to ask, "You just keep blood restorative on you all the time?"

The answer drifted to him, quiet. "Yes."

He'd half-formulated a follow up question when Snape spoke again, "You will need to enter the house on the east-facing side. The girl's room is on the ground floor, behind the garage. Be certain you are not seen, especially not by any _concerned citizens._ "

"Right," Harry muttered, focusing on the task at hand. "What are you going to do?"

"Have a _visit_ with the Ayers family," came Snape's prompt reply before he stopped at the mouth of a dirt path, gesturing toward it. "Third house on the left."

He glanced down the way with suspicion. "You sure have this all planned out."

The man's expression tightened. "Yes, as that is precisely my job," he commented, bland. "Now take this and do yours."

Snape held out a thin, yellow-brown strip of wood, into which were carved various runes. A wand- small, unassuming. Not nearly as refined and cared-for as the one Harry had kept by his side for five years. Looking at Snape with a question in his eyes, he reluctantly took hold of it.

"Do _not_ use your own wand."

The man's strict instruction followed him down the path as he donned his Invisibility Cloak and made his way toward the house. It was strange, to be engaging in such… _endorsed_ subterfuge. Even stranger was the fact that the directive had come from Snape, the person he and his friends had most desperately needed to avoid during their nightly excursions. This time, though, the stakes were much higher; getting caught wouldn't just land him in detention. It could expose the Order, put his face in the Daily Prophet once more, and jeopardize a girl's life.

When put in that perspective, Harry began to feel very nervous. His grip on the little strip of a wand tightened as he approached the tall wooden fence near the back end of the house. Considering what Dumbledore had told him, the Ministry knowing exactly where and when he had used magic, it seemed like a trick: Snape giving him another wand. Was it a test? And if so, for what purpose? Did he still want to see Harry expelled? Probably. But then, with seeing that act the man put on for the family, all his talk of doing whatever it takes to succeed, to _win…_ Getting Harry arrested didn't seem quite in line with that thinking.

Traversing the back perimeter, he began to suspect that Snape had merely had the foresight to divine this simple fact: Harry could not succeed without a wand. There was no gap in the wooden slats, no gate, nothing to hold onto for climbing. In essence, no way to get in by regular means.

Even though he knew what he had to do, his resolve was still shaky. An image of the full Wizengamot flashed before his eyes, the cut of their robes imposing as they bombarded him with questions. He'd be hard pressed to explain _this_ away.

Blowing out a breath, he pressed the wand's tip against one of the wood slats of the fence, mumbling a quiet _Diminuendo._ The wood shrank in size until it was only the length of a matchstick, allowing Harry enough space to squeeze through, but it also made a loud noise when the nails holding it together gouged a deep scratch in. Harry's gaze darted about, ears trained for any disturbance, eyes seeking for anyone who may have been alerted, but there was nothing.

He crouched down, ducking underneath the horizontal slab of wood, careful not to catch his cloak on the nail, before he restored the wood panel to its full size. There was considerable damage done to it due to the nail, but it was the best he could do under present circumstances. Grimacing, he made his way toward the building itself, keeping himself in a crouch.

Through a window to his left, he spotted a person and froze on instinct. Lit with orange light, Charlie Ayers was squinting into the gloom, speaking to whoever was behind him before he moved away. Harry blew out a breath, his tense muscles unraveling enough for him to continue.

Violet's room was easy to find. Not only was it beside the garage, as Snape had said, but it was the only window with a bright, patterned curtain. An attempt to pull it open revealed that the lock was latched shut, but a handy _Alohamora_ fixed that. Sighing, he figured that if the Wizarding authorities hadn't descended on him yet, they weren't going to.

There was something very… _freeing_ about that.

Harry slid open the window slowly, doing his level best not to make a sound. The window let out a soft shriek as it struggled on its track, but it was, fortunately, nothing too noticeable. Climbing down to the room itself, however, was bound to be a tricky affair. Below the window was a large space heater, which he'd preferred not to topple if he could help it.

He was busy contemplating how to make his way down without his Invisibility Cloak sliding off when he had a realization that made him want to smack himself. Gripping the borrowed wand in his hand, his eyes locked on the sight of the room before him and, with a soft _pop,_ he Apparated directly into the center of the carpeted floor.

Now that he was in, the task before him seemed both easier and harder. On the one hand, he didn't have to stoop over beneath his cloak any longer, letting it slide to the floor with a grateful sigh. On the other, the sound of his every movement was likely to draw attention. Standing in place, Harry contemplated what to do next. Silencing charm, probably? He wasn't especially good at those, nor did he know how to place them on anything other than a person.

 _Best not, then,_ he figured, frowning. But, if he was going to be sneaking about, he'd need a bit of light. A hushed _Lumos_ lit up the environs, and Harry kept a hand cupped over the beam as he surveyed the room.

The first thing he noticed was a large bed, the frame inlaid with metal curls. The sheet was white and pristine, draped neatly atop the mattress. In fact, everything about the room was neat: the chest of drawers nearby had nothing on it except for two framed photos and a stuffed black cat, the small desk was devoid of a chair and had nothing atop it but an adjustable lamp and a mostly empty pencil holder, and the closet was devoid of clutter, holding a modest amount of hanging clothing with shoes lined up in organized rows below. Harry had never seen a room so clean and well put together.

The sole indicator that someone lived there was the sheer amount of focused decor. Pictures lined every wall, their presentation just as neat as the rest of the room, but they all seemed to be related to some Muggle production called 'Bedknobs and Broomsticks', if the repeated phrase and featured characters were anything to go by. Harry approached one wall to survey them more closely, peering curiously at the image of a woman, a man in a bowler hat, and three children flying across a colorful landscape on a metal bed that looked identical to the one in the room. One of the official-looking posters was signed with black marker and bearing the note, "To Violet - Keep the magic alive!" signed with a name he didn't recognize in flowing script. In addition, on the wall was a large schedule annotated daily up until when the girl had gone missing, a mounted broomstick (though not of any make Harry had ever seen while perusing Quidditch supplies), and a vast array of hand-drawn art.

Harry didn't consider himself artistically minded, by any means, but the drawings seemed, to him, very impressive. In one, a woman and man appeared to be dancing on the ocean floor, surrounded by fish in fancy dress; in another, a man was refereeing footie for cartoon animals; and there was also depicted a clearing where several suits of armor stood in battle formation against the night sky. They were all signed _Violet A._ in cursive.

He turned away from the wall, eyes scanning around for anything he missed. Above the girl's bed was a banner which read, _Treguna Mekoides Trecorum Satis Dee_ and, on her bedside table, a line of miniature armors were placed atop her digital alarm clock. At the foot of the bed was a cushy little settee for a pet of some kind, and a dark grey knapsack lay beside it, decorated with the image of a woman sitting on a broomstick and holding a sword, a small union jack fluttering behind her.

Harry frowned at the strange sight, casting his eyes about listlessly. There was a lot to see, but there was a distinct separation between witnessing elements of this girl's life and putting them together in a coherent way. His nerves returned as he gazed about. He was meant to be finding evidence, figuring out where she might have disappeared to, but that was easier said than done, wasn't it? Harry wasn't even certain what he was looking for; Dumbledore may have recommended him for sneaking about, but it was normally Hermione who fronted the _research_ bits of their troublemaking.

Still, he was here. So he ought to do something, rather than remain fixed to the center of the carpet. It felt odd to be rummaging in a girl's things, but Harry first inspected the chest of drawers. On top were the framed pictures; one was a family photo, Mr. and Mrs. Ayers along with three children, two boys and one girl. Except, Harry vaguely remembered the dad mentioning that Violet had a sister… Perplexed, he surveyed the second photograph, and what he found startled him.

He… _recognized_ her. She was exactly his age, of course, but he hadn't really expected… had never really _considered_ what that meant. She'd gone to Hogwarts the same as he had, and he'd seen her around meals, hallways, club meetings, Quidditch games. She was a year ahead, and a Ravenclaw, but she was immediately recognizable to him. Otherwise a fairly normal, round-faced girl, she had shoulder-length black hair, but the underlayer was colored bright blue, a trait which immediately set her apart.

Stunned, he gripped the picture frame tightly. This was the girl. This was _Violet._ A teenager and a student, like him. Someone he _knew._ And… this girl could be tortured, even _dead._ Every moment he wasted standing there was a moment she might be suffering, wherever she was.

His hands shook as he placed the photo back in its place. The quicker he got this job done, the less time she had to wait for the Order to find her.

Blowing out a stilted puff of air, he moved on to the desk. There was only one drawer, long and thin just below the tabletop. There were more bits and bobs in there: a set of colored pencils, a manual sharpener, stationary, a notebook… He picked it up, opening to the front page, where there were several loose sheets of paper. _Potions Notes,_ the first read at the top. Below was listed a bunch of second year material and a few doodles, including one of a tiny Snape with pointed teeth, yelling. Violet had written below, _He's marked me off for re-sorting the ingredients again!_ Beside that, she'd drawn a small angry version of herself. _Tell Maggie to give me back the quill I gave her._

Flipping through, all he found were notes and doodles, all penned in her hand. The longer he looked at it, the more tense and restless he felt. Harry placed it back in the drawer.

The closet didn't yield much aside from clothing, but it was at that point that Harry realized that he was going about this incorrectly. Instead of aimlessly walking about, he should have checked for anything concealed by magic first. Grimacing, he pulled out the borrowed wand, drawing in the air a broad, twisting swirl and whispering, " _Revelio!_ "

Two objects in the room glowed very briefly before the magic finished its work. One of the lights had come from the knapsack beside the bed, and the other had shone from inside the desk drawer.

The bag was closer, and he opened the flap to peruse the contents. Evidently, she possessed a wizardspace bag, since, at first glance, Harry spotted an entire bookshelf within. They were all magical books, many of them required texts for classes, all arranged alphabetically and by subject. Beside that was a rolling desk chair - likely the one that was missing from the desk itself - and a wooden easel, atop which sat…

Harry stooped down, taking the object in his hands, a feeling of dread sinking into his skin. It was a wand. And he had a sneaking suspicion that it was _her_ wand.

Finding nothing else of import, he pocketed the wand and closed up the knapsack. Then, returning to the desk drawer, he was met with two sheets of paper which hadn't been present before. Upon each was partially-legible handwriting, except, oddly, they were harshly scribbled over with dark granite, covering almost the entirety of both sides. The surface of the pages were gouged, one of them ripped in the center from the force of it, the shape of the movements frenetic, wild. He could only just make out a few words here and there, their meaning disjointed without context.

Just then, there was a thump on the bedroom door, causing Harry to jerk with surprise. Muttering a hasty _Nox_ to unlight the wand, he dived for his Invisibility Cloak, pulling it on just as a second thump sounded against the threshold. He held his breath, sliding a panicked glance to the still-open desk drawer, and the papers he'd left out.

Right as he began to inch over in that direction, Harry heard a small, inquisitive meow from the other side of the door. Frozen in place, he waited before another came, this one longer and drawn out, demanding. His eyes slid to the pet bed on the other end of the room; evidently, it was for a cat.

Moving quickly, he snatched the scribbled pages from the desktop, shutting the drawer as well. Almost as soon as he had done so, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Then, right after, a voice on the other side, high pitched and muffled. He couldn't make out what the person was saying, or who they were talking to, but after the silence hung for a few moments more, the door cracked open. The light and sound from outside found the chance to clamor inward, permeating the space about him. He waded in it, eyes trained on the door.

Harry saw the large protrusion of a stomach and the painted toes of two feet, just at the crack. The voice spoke again. "Alright, Cosmo?"

A little black cat poked its head in, giving another soft, conciliatory meow. The soft tinkling of a bell sounded as he walked further into the room and the door opened wider. A pregnant woman stood at the threshold, frowning into the darkness of the bedroom as she watched the cat scamper and sniff around.

Harry felt his toes curl when the cat came his way, sniffing at the area he occupied. He had no idea if animals could detect whether or not he was there, but by the way the cat was poking around…

"She's not in here," the woman at the door said softly, tenderly, as if she were breaking the news for the first time. The cat turned to look at her and meowed. Harry tried not to let out an exhale.

The cat jingled and jangled toward Violet's bed and hopped on to the duvet, paws beginning to knead at the spot that, no doubt, Violet had once previously occupied. The pregnant woman at the door sighed, one hand resting on the large mound of her belly. She leaned her head against the door frame, pulling the knob close to her body. "I miss her too, baby."

She seemed focused in reverie for a good solid while, until her attention was caught. Her eyes were trained on the spot where he sat, and Harry felt his heart sink. There was no way she could know. Absolutely _no_ way. And yet, in seconds, the door was open all the way, and she'd waddled in his direction. Harry's breathing hitched in his throat as he felt his body rear back, softly colliding with the wall, until-

"How'd you-?"

She stopped short of the windowsill. He felt the cloth at the top of his head sink slightly, the weight of her foot bearing down at the edge of his cloak, unwitting. Harry sat as still as he possibly could and watched as the balls of her feet shifted upwards, hoisting the entirety of her weight as she reached up and slammed the window shut. A loud gasp of air escaped her when she was on her heels again and she held her stomach, lips pursing.

A familiar shout climbed up behind the door. Charlie Ayers, calling for her. "Callie? Inspector Prince has a few questions-"

Callie glanced over her shoulder, body twisting with her. "One sec, Dad. Cosmic Creepers wanted into Vi's room. I'm coming."

A short walk later, the door shut, and Harry waited until the woman's footfalls faded away to move again. When he did, the cat's head snapped up with a short jingle, alert. Despite the noise of it, he Apparated outside, leaving behind the - likely very confused - cat.

Only then did he let out the breath he'd been holding. _Merlin,_ that had been close. But, glancing down at the papers in his hands, he hoped that what he'd been able to find was enough.

He was waiting just outside the front door for twenty minutes before Snape finally emerged from the house. "... rest assured that we will be doing everything in our power to find your daughter," he was saying, his tone earnest. Harry shied away from categorizing it as _kind_ , considering he knew it was all an act.

"See that you do," Charlie's voice replied, guarded.

Sasha chimed in after, "Thank you Inspector. Good night."

When the door closed, Snape began walking away immediately. Harry disliked that he was getting used to running in his wake.

At the end of the driveway, he addressed the man, "Will you slow down? I'm right here, you know."

"I am aware," was Snape's reply.

" _Well?!_ "

"Their neighbors have taken notice."

Harry looked around, spotting someone peeking through the curtains across the way.

Snape spoke again, "Stay hidden, and be _silent._ "

Frowning, he followed, keeping step with the man before him for several minutes before they turned a corner, ending up… exactly where he'd left Harry when they'd first split off.

Stopping, the man was all business. "What did you find?"

Despite being able to think of nothing else for the past several minutes, his thoughts jumbled the second the question was posed. He slid the cloak from his shoulders as he answered, "Er… I, uh, found Violet's room. Where you said."

Snape's expression was distinctly unimpressed. "Fascinating. You realize we are more interested about what is _inside._ "

He huffed, already irritated. "I know! I got in, and there wasn't much to see. Everything's really clean, nothing really left lying around."

The man's response was a curled lip, but Harry pressed on: "But I did find two things. She had a wizardspace bag, and that's where I found this-" He pulled the wand from his pocket. "I don't know if it's hers or not, but…"

Snape took the wand from his hands, turning it over once. "Have you something else of hers?" he questioned.

"Yeah, actually," he replied, offering the two ravaged sheets of paper. "I think it's a letter she scratched out. It was hidden with magic."

The professor took out his wand, touching the tip to the wand Harry had found and muttering, " _Dominus Revelare._ " A stream of light bonded to the wand, and Snape guided it toward the papers. " _Dominus Revelare,_ " he repeated, and the band linked to the pages before fading away.

"It is her wand," he announced, seeming confident.

Harry, however, frowned. "What was that? How do you know?"

Snape seemed to consider this question, likely deciding if it was worth answering. Harry underlined, "Might be useful, seeing as I could have done that way earlier if I knew how."

The older man's expression did not change, but he did reply, "Legal wands are registered to their owners, bonded to their magical signature. If a wand's master is uncertain, it can be queried about any other object or person which possesses a latent trace of the master's magical signature."

Harry's brain nearly melted halfway through with such technical terminology. "So… you're saying you asked the wand if the magic used on the letter was the same as its master?"

"Yes."

"Well, you could have just _said_ that," he muttered, wry.

"Did you find anything else?" Snape redirected the conversation.

He didn't particularly want to say "nothing", especially when he had a thought that had been hounding him for the past twenty minutes. "Before I answer, I have one more question."

"I cannot tell you anything about Lupin."

Harry's expression fell. "That's… er, I wasn't going to say anything about that," he said quietly, the reminder smarting. "I was actually wondering… Is it possible to use Legilimency on animals?"

At that, the professor raised an eyebrow. "That all depends on the animal."

"Violet has a pet cat," he explained, looking up at the man. "There wasn't much to see in her room, but maybe her cat saw or heard something the day she went missing."

Snape surveyed him strangely, then. Harry couldn't put his finger on why it was so strange, compared to all the other times that the professor had sized him up only that day, but it was distinct from the others. "Did you bring it with you?" the man asked.

Harry squinted. " _No,_ why would I do that? Wouldn't the family realize it was missing?"

The look offered him was vexed to the core. "It's a _cat,_ Potter. If it disappears for a few hours, no one will notice."

Well _that_ had an ominous ring to it. "I'm not exactly keen to steal someone's pet! Weird enough to take all this other stuff-"

"Your cooperation will not be necessary," Snape announced. "Wait here."

"What-?!"

Harry sighed, watching the man's back recede. _Great._ More waiting.

He'd settled in to wait for a good long while but, ten or so minutes in, Snape returned. Frowning, Harry remarked, "You're already back?"

The man did not grace him with a reply. Walking by without a word, he continued down the lane. Harry followed after, as he was forced to do yet again, sighing as he went.

There was silence along the way. Harry tried a prompt or two, but Snape remained stubbornly mute for the entire journey back to the Headmaster's Office.

Even when they arrived, he did not respond to Dumbledore's greeting, instead heading straight to a cabinet in the corner of the room. Watching curiously, Harry felt startled when the Headmaster addressed him.

"Harry? How did it go?"

What a question to ask. Free of other distractions, Harry's previous anger came bubbling back. "Everything went _right to plan,_ I bet."

His tone did not seem lost on Dumbledore, who peered at him with concern. "I take it you are displeased."

"You _think?!_ " Harry exclaimed, approaching the desk. "Couldn't just tell me that we were going to meet some bloodthirsty old hag in the middle of the swamp? Didn't think to mention that I'd be _breaking into_ a girl's house, or what I ought to _do_ when I got there?"

The Headmaster frowned, fingers threading before him on the desktop. "I understand that what was asked of you today may have seemed overwhelming-"

" _Overwhelming?_ " Harry echoed, voice climbing in pitch. "What's overwhelming is learning that Remus has been missing for who knows how long, and _you_ didn't bother to tell me!"

"Harry-"

" _No!_ " Harry erupted, fists clenched at his sides. "I'm _tired_ of excuses! I'm _tired_ of people _lying_ to me! Just tell me what happened to Remus!"

"Nothing has happened," Dumbledore claimed, infuriatingly serene. "To my knowledge, Remus Lupin is not missing."

Harry scoffed. He could hardly believe _that._ "Well then? Where is he?"

"I do not know."

"That is the exact definition of _missing!_ " Harry shouted, irate.

"Harry," Dumbledore broke in, raising a hand. "Although his exact location has not been disclosed to me, Remus Lupin and I have been in regular contact. He is fine. He is safe. He is not _missing._ "

This stilled Harry, though the disquiet in his mind did not subside. "That doesn't make sense. Why would he do that?"

"That, I cannot say," Dumbledore answered, leaning back in his chair. "His reasons are his own. However, so long as he keeps contact, he is fully within his right to take time for himself."

"Yeah, but why didn't you _tell_ me?" he stressed, fervor returning. "After all that talk about things being different from last year, you went ahead and kept secrets. _Again._ "

"What purpose would it serve to make you shoulder this?" the Headmaster challenged, unwavering. "What good would it accomplish? There is nothing to be done about Remus's situation except worry, and I thought to spare you that."

Harry's head drooped, dejected, seeing the man's point. Knowing that Remus wasn't captured or dead was, in a way, little comfort. The fact remained that he had separated himself for some unknown reason, had evidently abandoned whatever post the Order had set him on. On some level… knowing _this_ was, indeed, worse.

"I can assure you, Harry, that he is safe," Dumbledore broke his long silence, the words quite tender. "I do not yet know when he will return, but should things take a turn for the worse, I will notify you."

"Headmaster." Snape's voice broke into the fray, composed but urgent. "I am prepared to make a full report."

Harry turned his way, having nearly forgotten he was there. Gaze inquisitive, he looked between the two men as Dumbledore rose from his seat with an affable, "Yes, Severus. Thank you."

It was only then that he saw what Snape was standing next to. He had opened the corner cabinet, and inside was a large stone basin with a smaller metal dish lining the inside. The Pensieve. Harry was no stranger to its uses, but to see Snape standing directly beside it brought back unpleasant recollections of Occlumency lessons in the dungeons. Not to mention when he'd gone snooping in Snape's own memories…

He didn't have long to think about that, thankfully. Snape himself was straight to business.

"We will begin with the most pertinent findings first."

As the Headmaster approached the Pensieve, he glanced over his shoulder. "Harry, my boy, you are part of this too," the old man ushered him over with his voice. "Let us relieve Severus of a small part of the burden of telling the story, hm?"

The professor's response was an irritated scowl, but Harry let himself be corralled into their semicircle around the Pensieve anyway. As he approached, Dumbledore gestured invitingly to the basin, his fingers lit up by the muted glow of the memories swirling below. "After you," was his prompt.

Hesitating, Harry stooped over the wooden stand, gripping the stone for support, and slowly, carefully, placed his face beneath the surface of the misty liquid.

… and his feet touched carpet.

Not real carpet, he could immediately tell. Like a dream, the details of his location were hazy, indistinct. Mere moments after he arrived, Snape and Dumbledore descended on either side of him, materializing in wisps of dark, powdery smoke.

At first, it was difficult to discern his surroundings, muted in color and detail, similar to the times he'd lost his glasses. His hand lifted, automatic, to check if they still remained - the lenses had drifted down the bridge of his nose, but no amount of adjusting fixed the image before him. He frowned and glanced toward the other men, who stood together, solemn and quiet, eyes directed ahead of them.

He followed their line of sight to the image of a blur hunched over a desk, fidgeting frantically in place. It took a few seconds more, but the area around him began to materialize and clear - not much better than it had been before, but he was finally able to recognize where he was standing.

Violet was on her knees in front of her desk, violently brushing the edge of a stick of charcoal against something that laid on the surface. The sound of her voice was muffled, as if she were farther away than the distance she sat from him, but he could hear her cries, interspersed with the harsh staccato of her breath as her shoulders tensed against sobs.

Dumbledore roused at his side, taking a step forward. Snape followed suit shortly after, with Harry trailing behind, eyes focused on the slump of Violet's back.

The visage of her grew clearer the closer he got, from the side he could see the redness of her face, or what he _thought_ was redness - the color shift was off, her skin tinted a light orange hue than the pink flush that usually came with tears. It wasn't until he heard a soft mewling at his feet that he realized why.

Violet through a cat's eyes.

"Not now," the girl scolded, her teeth gnashing together, eyes wide and almost… feral.

Harry watched as the cat at his feet went and rubbed up against the side of her desk, meowing again.

Violet heaved in a harsh breath. "I said _no,_ " she snapped.

The cat hardly relented, complaining to the girl in a series of loud, whining meows. Within seconds, Violet's tense facade shattered, much in the way he'd seen Malfoy snap in his confrontation with Urquhart. She threw the piece of charcoal hard against the wall, her entire body foisting itself in the direction of the cat.

"S _hut up!_ " she snarled, the words tearing through her, ugly and enraged. " _Shut up!_ I can't _take_ it! Stop!"

The force of her anger left her spent rather quickly. The cat, while not outwardly terrified, did slink away, if only from the shock of hearing something loud so suddenly.

The image of it seemed to bring Violet back to her senses. Her expression shifted and softened as she stared at the cat, rueful. Her blackened hands lifted to cover her ears, pained, as her eyes closed.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the cat, eyes opening again. Her tears were in her voice. "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

The cat's tail curled around itself as it sat down, staring up at her. Violet sat back on her legs in a kneeling position on the ground. She pressed her forehead into the butt of one of her palms, the whole of her face contorted in distress, as if she were in severe pain. Harry frowned.

"I want to puke," she announced, leaning forward to brush the ruined scraps of paper aside, leaving a clear space for her to lay her head.

The cat strode forward, rubbing the side of its body against Violet's thighs. Harry could hear its purring loud in his ears. Violet's hand drifted down, her fingers entangling in the mess of its long, wild fur. Her head shifted until she was rested on her cheek, half-lidded eyes watching as the cat pet itself with her unmoving hand.

Her hair drifted over her shoulder as she moved to look at the desk top, chin digging into the wood. She clenched her eyes again, seeming to roll through a sensation that Harry couldn't define, before she rose to her feet and walked across the room.

Pulling something from her knapsack, the same grey one that Harry had rummaged through that day, she moved toward the desk. The thing in her hands had the look of a mini cauldron, except the shape was attired garishly, bright yellows, reds, and blues surrounding the words " _Invisi-Paint!_ " There was subtext, of which the only word Harry could make out was 'potion', but Violet obscured his view, as she was busy unstopping the cork at the top. Dipping a fan-shaped paintbrush into it, she meticulously covered the whole of both blackened pages row by row, every stroke causing that section to vanish from view.

When she had finished, a sigh escaped her lips as she opened the drawer and brushed her arm across the tabletop, as if gathering thin air into it, and closed it shut with a snap.

She glanced over her shoulder, back down to the ground, where the cat was still seated, staring up at her.

"I'm sorry," Violet apologized once more, slinking to her knees as she began to crawl to the animal. By the time she reached him, her body was laid out flat on the carpet, one arm perched on its elbow as she offered her fingers for the kitty to sniff and butt its head into.

"It just hurt, Cosmo. I can't think."

The animal merely purred, back arching as it approached her face. Violet appeared with such clarity before Harry's eyes, every detail of her exaggerated and sharp, as the cat slid its face against her temple, its stride leading its entire body to caress her face until its bushy tail caught against her nose. He saw Violet try to smile, but her heart wasn't in it.

Her arm and head dropped down onto the carpet and she watched as the cat moved away from her, dipping into a leisurely zigzag to and from her body, never remaining too close, or too far away from her. Eventually, however, the cat plopped down on its side on the carpet, within arms reach.

Violet shifted her head onto its side as she reached her arm out, covering the cat's paw with her hand. Within an instant, the cat retracted its paw closer to its body. It was odd, how such an action made Violet's face pull into a bittersweet smile.

There was a long, protracted period in which nothing at all happened. Awkward, Harry fidgeted, not particularly interested in watching Violet lay on the ground, inert, listening to the soft drone of the cat's purring. Every so often, Harry glanced up at the adults in the room, only to be met with their stony expressions as they took in every detail of the scene, even in this length of silence.

Harry was about to speak, if only to break the uneasiness that was rising within him from all the waiting, when a resounding, frenetic knock thundered through the house. The cat's head shifted toward her bedroom door. Violet's eyes shuddered open.

" _No,_ " she murmured, burying her face back in the carpet.

Her refusal didn't matter much, nor did it prevent the next round of knocks from flooding the house. Violet's annoyed groan bled into the carpet, her hands reaching up to cover her ears again.

Another pause. Then, another flurry of knocks.

Violet's head snapped in the direction of the door, her entire body lurching as her fingers tightened around the domes of her ears. She appeared to be in pain again, overwhelmed and panicked, tears prickling in her eyes. He couldn't quite understand her distress; from the story her parents told, she would have been, rightfully, angry. Upset, even. But in this moment, when all was otherwise calm and uneventful, a regular knock was enough to thoroughly disturb her. It seemed… wrong, to be witnessing these most vulnerable moments of a girl he barely knew. Harry frowned, his gaze flicking toward Snape and Dumbledore for a reaction, but there was none.

Violet was quick to wipe her eyes and stand when she realized that the knocking wasn't going to stop. It took a few moments of staggering before she was rushing out the door, heading in the direction of the sitting room. Harry was quick to follow just behind, however…

As he reached the threshold, he felt his entire body jerk and still. He was unable to move further than the threshold of the open bedroom door, his body supplanted in place, paralyzed.

"Er…" Harry turned his head, baffled. "Is there something wrong with this memory?"

Snape's voice carried to him as if it were floating from a great distance, the sound arriving long after his mouth moved. "There is nothing _wrong_ with it." His supreme indignation managed to reach Harry, even with the delay.

Dumbledore's words were kinder. "I presume this memory belongs to little Cosmo, here." He gestured to the cat. "We will only see as he sees."

The cat in question had entrenched itself in the middle of the carpet, busy cleaning itself and stretching its legs out luxuriously. Harry watched it, mouth turning down in frustration. "Well! How are we supposed to know what Violet's doing?!"

"Patience," the Headmaster urged him, while Snape simultaneously hissed, " _Silence._ "

Harry almost wished he could urge the cat out the door himself, anxious and restless as he was to find out what the hell Violet was _doing._ This was their only shot, wasn't it? Every second strung itself out and he felt it as a tensing in his muscles as he stared at the cat, _willing_ it to move.

There was the sound of shuffling feet at the front of the house, which finally, _thankfully,_ bade the cat to leave the room. Harry was the first to exit, rushing out on sprinting feet as he silently hoped that the cat would make a beeline for wherever Violet was, instead of getting distracted elsewhere.

The cat made it to the couch, the one that Charlie and Sasha had sat in when he and Snape had questioned them a week before. Thankfully, Violet's body was in sight. She'd just returned, torch in hand, and had handed it to someone who was at the door.

"... thank you, yes. This will help so much," Harry heard a male voice peek in, sounding relieved, but nervous. His accent was distinctly not Welsh.

"No problem," was Violet's meek reply, her form receding back into the house. "I hope you find him before it gets too late."

"Me too." Harry could hear footsteps moving away outside. "Thank you again. I'm so sorry for bothering you."

"It's nothing," Violet lied, her hand dropping to hold the doorknob. "You can leave the torch on the front step when you're done. Have a good night."

Harry could hear words that sounded like "you too" lance through the distance, but he wasn't too sure. He watched as Violet stepped away from the door, moving to close it.

However, there was the noise of a rushed step toward the entrance, the brush of a hand going to hold the door. "Wait," he heard the man say, before pausing, reticent.

Violet's shoulders tensed. "Yes?"

"I'm-" Harry heard a sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm not from around here and I know it's late but- is there any way I could get you to help? I promise it wouldn't be long. I just don't know this area well and-"

Violet vacillated from one foot to the other, uncertain. "I don't know-"

"You don't have to say yes. I just want to make sure I find him. He's still a puppy, you know? And I'm worried about him. I would really appreciate it."

Violet's head dipped and collided gently with the door frame. Harry watched as she stood there, staring out at the front porch in clear deliberation. Then, she raised on her toes, her head dipping into a nod. "Okay, uhm. Just one sec. Let me get a coat."

A woosh of breath escaped from the man. "Thank you. You're so kind. _Thank_ you, really-"

Violet stepped away from the door and trotted back to her room. Seconds later she reemerged, a large wool-knit sweater draped over her torso. She rushed her way across the house, however when she caught the cat's eye, she made a quick detour where it was perched on the couch cushions.

"I'll be back in a bit," she promised as she leaned down and pressed a soft peck to the top of the cat's head. It leaned in, eyes closing. The scene around Harry darkened. "Be good, Cosmo."

Violet glided away from the couch and when the room brightened again, Harry noticed the door had opened.

Harry's breath strangled itself. This man… The dark coat, that fair, freckled skin, the wispy mop of hair atop his head. That face, those expressive fragments which seemed more suited to snarling and shrieking in mania, now contorted into a calm, friendly affect.

 _How…?_

"Ready?" His smile was beguiling.

Violet merely nodded, stepping out onto the front porch.

And Barty Crouch Jr., eyes briefly scanning the inside of the house, closed the door behind her.


	8. Probability

Here we come to chapter eight, finally! We hope you enjoy reading it as much we enjoyed writing it! As well: Merry has been aching to change some old chapter images, so keep an eye out for that. ;)

For chapter images, check us out on AO3!

Coming Soon - Chapter 9: 3rd of November

•••••••••

When Cleo arrived at Divination, her three classmates and the partners they'd invited were dithering below the trapdoor. Oddly, she recognized a few of the new faces.

Harry stood beside his redheaded friend, who looked displeased when she approached. "You again," he mumbled, loud enough for her to hear.

" _Ron_." There was a distinct warning in Harry's tone, though it vanished when he addressed her a moment later: "I, er, didn't know you took Divination."

"I don't," Cleo denied, breezy. May as well have fun with them.

"Oh." Harry slanted a perplexed glance at the other Gryffindors in their group, though Lavender and Parvati were too busy chatting amongst themselves to notice. His gaze returned to her. "Well, we're just here to help out, so I guess that's what you're here for then?"

"Yep," Cleo exhaled, glancing down at the girl beside her. Thea beamed.

The redhead's eyes narrowed, darting between them both. "Who's this, then?" he questioned, puffing himself up.

"This is Thea Waters," Cleo introduced the first year before looking to the two boys. "Thea, this is Harry Potter and- err, Ron Weasley, is it?"

He crossed his arms, uttering a thick, " _Yeah_."

Harry raised a hand in greeting, the motion a bit stiff. "Hi," he said, peering at her curiously. "You, uh… Are _you_ in this class?"

When Thea glanced her way, Cleo rose her eyebrows. "Yeah," the first year announced without hesitation, arms crossing. "I brought Cleo."

Weasley harrumphed. " _Right_ , and I'm a ghoul's granddad."

Cleo feigned offense. "You doubt her?"

"Well yeah! She looks barely out of her nappies, much less-!"

"What Ron _means_ to say," Harry cut in, looking tired at that point, "is it's _nice_ to meet you."

Thea appeared quite genuinely affronted by the comment about her age, puffing herself up as she stared ahead with a raised chin. "I _suppose_ I can say the same as well," the girl returned, pitching her voice low.

Cleo glanced up at the ceiling to hide her smile. Thankfully, Harry didn't seem to take notice when he wondered, "What is it you're actually learning in N.E.W.T. Divination, where you need extra partners?"

Thea fielded that question masterfully. "Libranomancy."

Weasley nearly choked, accusing, "You just made that up!"

Cleo had to bite down on her lip hard to keep from laughing as Thea glanced, imperious, in Weasley's direction, defining with ease: "Libranomancy, a subsection of pyromancy, where one divines the future through smoke burned from incense, wood, and-"

"What a load of tripe!"

Harry frowned at his friend. "What's it matter, Ron? All we ever did in Divination was make things up, anyway…"

The boy's face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet. "That's not the same thing!"

Thea's nose wrinkled. "How does that work?" she asked, glancing up at Cleo. "Divination's magic, isn't it? How do you make things up for magic?"

Cleo lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "It's complicated."

Before the boys had a chance to reply, another voice, soft and airy, blossomed beside them. "All magic is made up, actually."

Harry turned a puzzled glance in the girl's direction. "Er… Alright Luna?"

Weasley, on the other hand, looked even further put off. "Don't you start blithering on about some harebrained _Quibbler_ tripe-"

Her dreamy words cut straight through the insult. "New spells and potions are invented every day, did you know?"

Thea glanced down at the floor, thoughtful. "Guess that makes sense…"

Evidently, Harry wasn't quite catching on. "What has any of that got to do with Divination?"

The girl, Luna presumably, did not respond, her face alighting in a smile as she seemed to spot Cleo that very moment. "Oh! I know you! I saw you, just the other day."

"Did you?" Cleo asked, wary.

"Yes!" Luna confirmed, rolling back on her heels. "You look lovely all dressed up in flowers, by the way."

"What?" Thea blurted, her eyes darting between the two. "When did you-"

"I wish the trees liked me as much as they like you," the whimsical girl lamented. "They took my favorite scarf, so I think they are rather cross with me."

Cleo couldn't decipher any of that, at least not properly. She could only manage, slightly slack-jawed, a meager question. "Who did you come with?"

With an open hand, she gestured toward the other grouping of girls, directing their sight to a sprightly Hufflepuff, talking animatedly in their midst. "Megan asked me."

Weasley frowned. "Who's that? Never met her."

"I can't imagine how you missed her," Luna remarked, eyebrows lifted. "She is a very bright person."

"Who's bright?" Megan cut in, withdrawing from her previous conversation and as chipper as ever. "Miss Cleo? I thought so too. Your hair looks so _silky_ today!"

"Thanks, Megan," Cleo replied, tilting her head. It took a second before she pointed to the girl's hands. "Cute nails. Did you do that yourself?"

"Nope! All Luna!" the girl enthused, crossing over the space to display them to Cleo. "Isn't it pretty? She even spelled them to change color when I tap my fingers, look."

Though the demonstration did not disappoint, they were then interrupted by a loud bang, the trapdoor above them having been thrown open. All eight heads looked upward in unison as the scraggly bush of Trelawney's hair came into view.

"What's all this noise?" she questioned, voice meandering as she squinted through the porthole.

One of the girls (Lavender Brown, if Cleo was remembering correctly) frowned back at the professor, nonplussed. "The door wasn't open," she explained. "We didn't know if you were ready for class yet."

Trelawney grimaced, appearing to mull that over. "It's not class time," she muttered.

"Oh! Um," Megan chirped, hand raised in the air, "it's just gone eleven, Professor! And we've brought friends along to help us, like you instructed!"

The professor's face disappeared from view, but a hefty groan drifted down the ladder from the dark room above. The group exchanged looks, uncertain and uncomfortable. However, Megan, terminally joyful as she was, led the charge. The force of her enthusiasm encompassed them all, compelling them through the trapdoor despite their misgivings.

The classroom was full dark, to such a degree that everyone was stumbling around trying to find which cushion belonged to them. Where Trelawney had gone off to, she couldn't tell, but there was nothing for it, she supposed. Cleo managed to move carefully to her regular spot toward the front of the room, Thea in tow, but even still, they encountered a good amount of elbows and murmured apologies along their way.

"Can't we get a light in here?" she heard Weasley blurt out, his exasperation plain. A moment later, his wand blinded everyone with its sudden light, causing them to squint with discomfort.

However, no one was more disgruntled by this than Professor Trelawney herself, who reared back on the settee she was slumped upon, her arm swinging in a sluggish arc as it went to cover her face. "Put that _away!_ " she croaked, her words dragging themselves out on a painful groan.

"Professor?" That was Parvati, her worried expression stark beside Weasley's _Lumos_.

The woman took hold of a nearby shawl, draping it across her face with an exaggerated swipe. Still, Cleo could plainly see the corners of her mouth twitch downward. "Turn. It. Off!" the woman shrieked ahead of another moan, her opposite hand clutching her glasses so hard Cleo thought they might snap.

"Alright, _alright_ ," Weasley groused, the room falling dark once more.

The professor took in a huge breath, beads rustling as her voice emerged from the darkness. "Light bodes foul _fortune_ today," she stressed. "I advise you all not to try your _luck._ "

"Er… Professor?" That was Harry. "You alright?"

"Yeah, you're making less sense than usual," Weasley commented beside a soft thud, presumably made by him dropping down onto one of the plush pillows that were littered about.

Trelawney's jewelry clinked once more as she moved, though it was hard to track her. "I have yet to recover from the lunar phases," she lamented, indeed sounding ill.

It wasn't very clear what exactly she meant by that, but Megan piped up, "Oh, you mean the full moon? Wow, you must be really sensitive, since it's been off for a full week…!"

The words could have sounded condescending, but Megan had a way about her which was utterly sincere, such that Trelawney did not refute her. Or, perhaps, she merely hadn't noticed her implication, since another drawn-out, melodramatic moan of pain emitted from the corner she'd curled up in.

Noticing there was nothing set up for their class, Cleo found herself searching the room for anything that even _remotely_ indicated that there was a lesson plan. It was hard to make out much of anything in the overcast; even Thea, who sat stone still beside her, was nothing more than a silhouette.

Lavender Brown spoke again. "If you aren't well, Professor, should you go see Madam Pomfrey? One of us could take you."

"No, no, _no_ -" Trelawney suddenly squawked, clawing at the layers of beads at her chest and shaking her head, the black mass of her form appearing to heave over the side of her seat. "I'm fine! Better than fine! Better than that- _ow_ -!"

Clutching her head and mumbling to herself in the dark, she looked properly insane.

"Have you hurt yourself, Professor?" Megan asked, her voice lancing clear and sharp in the dark.

"She has, I think," Luna concurred from her nearby perch.

Parvati fretted, "Perhaps we ought to fetch Madame Pomfrey here directly…"

"Libranomancy," Trelawney said in a perfectly normal voice, the shift in her demeanor quite jarring. "The ancient and formidable art of divining the visions of _smoke_ and _mist_."

The class collectively paused their chatter, waiting on the woman's next words with wary anticipation. The woman's hands shook as she lifted them into the air. "These secret arts are not to be trifled with… only those gifted with the _Sight_ may gaze upon the aetherial plane… _and-_ "

Trelawney doubled over, losing her steam and shriveling up on the spot as she cradled her face. Then, an arm slicing through the air to point off to the side, she grumbled, "Oh- just get the _sodding_ braziers…"

One student from each group, those willing to brave the dark, rose and made an orderly - or as orderly as one could manage, stumbling about as they were - queue to the corner where Trelawney had indicated. Cleo had to pat her hands around until her fingers brushed against a grainy, coarse metal spike. It took estimating the width of the bloody thing until she felt confident enough to lift it off the ground and begin to make her trek back.

Most of them had returned to their seats before they heard Trelawney announce again, her voice a low thrum as her head bent further downward against the side of her chair. "The tinder, too."

"You joking?" Weasley scoffed. "Hoping we'll stub our toes straight off?"

"C'mon, Ron," Lavender coaxed. "Relax, please? She's not feeling all that well."

Before the boy could answer, Harry spoke up. "I'll fetch some for everyone."

"Oh, lovely!" Luna's voice glided through the dark, sing-song. "That's just like you, really."

It was well enough the boy offered; Cleo didn't feel like going back herself and was in the mood to take his charity if he was willing to give it. She arrived in front of Thea's shadow, grunting softly as she lowered the brazier between them.

She halted, though, a few inches before the thing touched the ground. "Feet out of the way?"

Thea's head twitched upward slightly, as if pulled from reverie. "Huh?"

"Your feet."

"Oh," the girl murmured. "You're fine."

She released the hunk of metal to the floor and carefully crawled back to her seating pillow, sigh escaping her once she situated herself. "How are you holding up?" Cleo asked, leaning toward the first year.

Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark; she swore she could see the slight twist in Thea's lips as she shrugged. "Fine, I guess."

Cleo's smile was slight. "Scared of the dark?"

"No." Thea's voice was clipped. Bothered.

"Struck a nerve, have I?" Cleo teased.

" _No,_ " the girl returned again, just as icy as before.

At that moment, Harry reached them with an armful of wood, placing a few in the brazier and setting some off to the side for later use. He didn't reply when she muttered her gratitude to him, stalking back into the dark to top off the other students. Probably not a bad idea. Were it her, she'd want to get this entire ordeal finished as soon as possible.

Were it.

Maybe she _did_ just want to get this over with.

Feeling ungainly in her seat, she shifted toward Thea again, beseeching her attention in the gloom. The girl wasn't exactly cooperative; she sat, the stiffness of her posture making her appear statuesque.

"What with the fire, it'll be like camp, I'd wager," was Cleo's incredibly _awful_ attempt at levity.

Thea's acknowledgement was a soft hum, though she was otherwise unresponsive.

In her periphery, Cleo noticed Trelawney rise from her seat, unsteady. "Now, I want us all to be clear that this is the _correct_ way, _the only sane way_ to divine by fire-"

"Correct way, Professor?" Parvati asked. Her voice sounded closer than before.

"Yes!" the woman insisted, voice going rather shrill for a moment before she clutched at her head once more. Cleo couldn't help but notice Thea flinch beside her. "Yes, _correct_. You're not to go deviating into uncivilized practices- It is my job, nay, my _duty,_ to guide your minds in suitable paths, that your Inner Eye may open to its fullest!"

By the end, she'd worked herself up into a bit of a frenzy, if the frenetic jangling of her beads was anything to go by. "Now, let's see some fires, hm? We'll show _him-_ "

It was unsettling. Cleo had never seen Professor Trelawney like this before. A bit ornery and frayed at the edges, sure, but…

"Him?" Megan questioned.

Apparently, it had been unwise to focus on that point. Just as one of the braziers sprang to life, the professor's expression, pallid and contorted with fury, was illuminated.

"The _horse_ ," she gritted, her hands clenching her shawls in a vice grip. "We're doing it _better_ than the horse."

The horse?

Luna, however, seemed to shed some light on the matter, disquietingly serene as ever. "Oh, Professor Firenze?"

"That name is not welcome in _my_ classroom!" the woman shrieked. "Nor the negative energy it courts! _Not_ again, Miss Lovegood! This is a place of _learning!_ "

This drew a loud snort from Weasley, but he quickly covered it up with a cough.

The woman's tirade reminded her of her mother in the worst way possible. Beyond that, matters hadn't been cleared up all that much for Cleo. She had no idea who Professor Firenze was, or why he was apparently a _horse_. Whatever that meant.

"Now, if you're all _quite finished_ ," she said, her hand reaching up to massage her forehead, her eyes closing against what appeared to be pain, "shall we get on with the lesson?"

Silence met her pronouncement. She seemed to take it as permission. "When your fires are lit, you will be taken into a trancelike state," Trelawney told them. "Brought upon by the fragrant Clancus wood and _enhanced_ by Celtic sea salts, they will focus your Sight, allowing you to transcend the mortal world and behold strange visions of the beyond!"

In response, two other fires came alight across the room. The brilliance of the flames bade Professor Trelawney to retreat back to her settee. Tearing her eyes away, Cleo returned her attention to their kindling, lighting it with a prompt _Incendio_.

Thea's face shimmered into view, materializing behind the tendrils of flame. Her eyes were planted at her lap, hands holding one another just above her waist.

"Thea?"

The girl blinked. "Mm?"

There was something Cleo had wished to ask ever since they'd entered the classroom. She thought better of it. "You should give me your hands."

Thea looked as if she'd rather eat them than obey. "Oh."

"Or you could just look me in the eye," Cleo offered.

She didn't seem to want to do _that_ , either. But the girl managed, though not without her gaze ambling before it reached her stare. Cleo greeted her with a smile.

Thea didn't appear to appreciate it much. "What?"

Cleo shrugged. "Just, hello?"

She scowled. "Why are you being weird?"

 _I'm not_ , Cleo felt herself near to saying. But that wouldn't have helped, not with Thea's sudden plummeting mood. "Are you okay?"

"Why do you keep asking that?"

"This is the first time I've asked," Cleo countered.

The girl's nose wrinkled. For the time being, however, she seemed to give up on being combative. "How're you supposed to do this?"

Cleo stared at the crackling flames, feeling her eyes get a bit watery. "I think I'm supposed to breathe in the smoke and go into a trance."

"Is that even safe?"

She frowned. Hell if she knew. She was already detesting the smell of the fragranced wood; it was a bit like the stronger incense her mother used when she did her Yule rituals, the ones that made her nauseated. She couldn't stomach breathing _that_ in, but…

Cleo leaned in slightly, flaring her nostrils on a slight, cowardly sniff. The scent careened like a punch to her nose, and Cleo reared back, covering her nose with a hand.

She heard a giggle flutter from where Thea was sitting. Cleo narrowed her eyes.

"Oh, so _that's_ funny, is it?" her words peeked out from behind her palm, muffled.

"Uh, yeah?" Thea shot back, snickering.

Beggars couldn't be choosers, really. Cleo was at least happy to see her in a lighter mood.

Her hands slunk into her lap and she grimaced. Thea was peering at her. "Feel trancey yet?"

"My head aches," she replied, squinting.

"Well, Miss Cleo?" the girl prodded, besetting herself with a dramatic, mystical tone. "Tell me my future?"

Cleo shot her a look. _Very funny._

Thea's lips pursed before she glanced over her shoulder, pensive. "Bet I have a prediction."

"Oh? What's that?"

Thea sat up straighter, her eyes peering just over Cleo's shoulder. "That everyone will be dead before the hour is out," she commented, unnervingly mellow.

"What?"

The girl appeared preoccupied with something. "Are there any windows in here?"

Still confused, Cleo stared at her, blank faced.

Thea scowled. "Carbon Monoxide?"

"Oh, Jesus-" Cleo sputtered, glancing over her shoulder as well. "I hadn't thought about that-"

"It crossed my mind when you mentioned campfires," Thea mentioned. "I thought maybe there'd be a fumigation thing at work but uhm. Please ask her?"

"You can't?"

Thea grew impatient fast. "Please just do it?"

Cleo wasn't all that excited to bother the beast when she'd seemed to settle, hunched over, on her satin pillows. But there was nothing for it, was there? Cleo leaned toward her, calling her with a subdued: "Professor Trelawney?"

She hadn't heard her, apparently. Or maybe she didn't want to be bothered. Cleo looked back at Thea, who frowned, eyes urging her. _Try again_.

"Professor Trelawney?" Louder this time.

Nothing.

Cleo, with a pained expression, cleared her throat. Then, louder still: "Professor Trelawney!"

The woman's form flinched to dodge her voice, but for what it was worth, she _did_ roll over, looking perturbed and worse for wear. " _What?_ "

"I-" Cleo swallowed. "Listen, I was wondering if we could open some of the windows."

"Whatever _for?_ "

"Safety," Cleo answered, purposefully calm. "There's a reason why people don't light big fires indoors-"

"My rooms are hardly going to burn _down,_ Miss Croft," Trelawney dismissed, groggy.

"That's not what I'm worried about," Cleo objected. "It's just, if we don't have a source of air, we're unsafe-"

"We are _perfectly_ safe, my dear," Trelawney assured her, looking about as finished with this conversation as one possibly could. "And besides, it's quite chilly outside…"

"I'm certain we will keep warm with the fires," Cleo reasoned. "Please, I think it's best if we open some of the windows."

"I know what I'm doing!" the woman asserted, growing impatient. "All I ask is a little faith, child."

Cleo was starting to feel a bit irritated as well. She saw Thea tense beside her, overwrought. The girl was completely wound up, appearing as if she had something to say. However, there was no resolve behind her posture - just vigilance.

"It has nothing to do with faith," Cleo objected, returning her attention to the professor. "Perhaps we should just move this outdoors. Maybe to the Astronomy tower? You can stay in the lower quarters while we're up top-"

"Outdoors?! Like _him?_ " Trelawney uttered with disdain, as if the implication offended her to her very core. "I think not!"

"I don't know who you're talking about," Cleo told her, doing her level best to sound as even keeled as possible. "Professor, I'm really not trying to insult you. I'm being serious. We either need the windows open, or we need to go outside."

"You've yet to provide a suitable _reason_ ," the woman near growled, her palm canopying over her eyes to shield her from the firelight. Cleo could see her eyes squinting behind the thick frames of her glasses.

She lowered her voice. "Because if we _don't_ , everyone is going to get _very sick_."

She saw a few heads turn, particularly Weasley, who had struck up a whispered exchange with the other Gryffindors. Still, no one rose to her aid.

Trelawney, for her part, peered at Cleo with interest. "You seem very confi-" The woman gasped, force of it rocking the whole of her frame, causing herself, and several students, to flinch. Still, her rhapsodic realization appeared to transcend whatever ache she was struggling against. "My dear… Have… Have you had a _vision_?"

" _Yes,_ " Cleo leaned into this reasoning; anything to get the woman motivated and _moving_. "Just now. So could we please-"

"I knew this day would come!" Trelawney exclaimed, beside herself. "I always told you, didn't I? That one day, you would be _awakened_ to-"

"Yes, I understand," Cleo broke in, trying to tamp down the woman's excitement. "Time is of the essence, though. So if you please?"

There was a bit of a bustle as she sat up, ready to acquiesce. However, in an instant, Trelawney's expression grew sour. "Wait," she muttered, placing her glasses atop her nose to peer suspiciously at Cleo. "You haven't even added your salts."

She wasn't sure how effective it would be to dig deeper into this lie. "I didn't need to," Cleo countered, quick on her feet. "Premonition."

The woman frowned, pulling her shawls around her primly. "Clytemnestra, I am disappointed," she announced. "I understand how you must feel, separated from your Inner Eye, but you need not resort to _falsehoods_ , my dear."

Okay. This wasn't working. Foregoing Trelawney altogether, Cleo twisted her body in the direction of where Weasley and Harry sat, their bodies no more than slight slits of shadow struck through by the firelight. "Can you open some of the windows? We're going to get Carbon Monoxide poisoning if we don't keep the room ventilated."

Weasley scoffed, "Carbon _whatsit?_ "

Harry's wand was in his hand when Trelawney spoke again. "Cleo. _Listen_ to me."

"Professor I would be _very happy to,_ " she oozed, emphatic, "but _after_ the windows are open. Please."

"This is _my_ classroom, not yours," the woman retorted. "I do not need you dictating to _me-_ "

"Professor, I'm not trying to," Cleo explained. "But this is a real thing. You can't have large lit fires in a room with no ventilation. It can kill you."

"I thought I made this _clear_ ," Trelawney drawled, long-suffering. "No more _lies_."

Maybe the woman's conduct was bothering her more than she realized. Nothing else could explain the very rapid surge of anger that coursed through her, hoisting her to a stand. All instinct; all muscle memory. "I'm not lying?" Cleo balked. "Combustion reactions require oxygen! Every time a combustion reaction occurs, carbon dioxide results as a product. In a place that is oxygen deprived, combustion still occurs, but it's _incomplete!_ Instead of carbon _di_ oxide, you get carbon _mon_ oxide! Which, when breathed in, attaches to the sites on your blood cells where oxygen _should go_ and when _that_ happens your organs start to suffoc-!"

"That will be quite enough!" Trelawney cut in, irate. She drew herself up, as if preparing for considerable difficulty. "And that will be ten points from Slytherin!"

A chorus of murmurs followed, the energy in the room falling further off-kilter, but Cleo's anger wasn't nearly spent; this was too familiar: Trelawney's _audacity._ On anyone else, it could be borne. But _this_ just ran too close to home-

"Just because you don't _understand_ doesn't mean I'm lying!" Cleo seethed. "I don't care - take all the points you want! I'm trying to make sure you don't get _fired_ for doing something so irredeemably _stupid and dangerous!_ "

There was a horrible quiet in the classroom for the span of several seconds, punctuated only by the crackling of their four wood fires. Trelawney's chest was heaving, a hand to her forehead, but when she looked at Cleo, it was with the most resolute face she'd ever seen on the woman. "You are like something _possessed_ , Cleo," she accused, voice quivering.

" _I'm_ possessed?" Cleo derided. She realized she'd seen this before. She _knew_ this. Intimately. And _that's_ why she was mad, wasn't it? Why she felt like she couldn't stop? Couldn't obey? "Do you even see yourself? What made you think you could come out here like _this?_ In no state to teach, much less make _decisions_ -"

"I am- I am perfectly able…" was Trelawney's feeble objection.

"What do you call this then?!" Cleo challenged, indignant. "Completely strung out, unable to even to get your classroom together, completely _losing_ it at the simplest-?!"

"Stop this!" the professor begged, distraught. "You- You can't _treat_ me like this-"

"How can you possibly think you're in any position to tell _me_ what I can and can't do?" Cleo sneered. "You actually _believe_ -"

"Cleo! Stop!" a voice behind her entreated, shaken. Megan. " _Look_ at her!"

The plea washed over her, stark and chilling, and she came to. Her eyes kept hold of an afterimage of the woman in front of her, brazen and bold, for only a moment longer before the current tableau settled in her vision. Cleo hadn't known she'd taken steps forward, neither had she realized she was towering over the professor, collapsed on her settee, wide eyes staring up at her, glimmering with tears.

She was still breathing heavy, her hand clutching her shawls.

Cleo faltered, her leg swinging back to distance herself. She let out a breath.

Trelawney had run out of voice. Her eyes remained affixed to Cleo's face. Terrified. She'd actually _terrified_ damn it. This wasn't even Trelawney's _fault._ She didn't know better.

"You're right," Cleo admitted, ashamed. This was Tenenbaum all over again. "This isn't productive. I'll go."

She turned and gathered her things. Thea was doggedly watching, but Cleo couldn't bear to look her in the eye.

When she slung her bag over her shoulder, she glanced to Trelawney once more, who hadn't moved one inch from her original position. A few of the girls in her periphery, she saw, were already bent over their fires, eyes locked on the professor with expressions of sympathy. They looked poised to spring to the woman's aid.

Well. Once the _storm_ had passed, anyway. Cleo's head bowed. "Professor, whatever's going on-" she stopped herself. No. _Not_ her responsibility. Drop it.

"I'm sorry," she tried instead, head shaking. She shifted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. "Please consider opening the windows."

By the time she'd made it down the ladder, she heard a flurry of voices cooing above, silenced only once she'd shut the trap door and let herself plop to the ground.

 _That_ had been a failure all around, hadn't it?

It was probably better to go off by herself at that point; perhaps plant herself at the furthest end of the castle and wait out the discomfort. However, there was the matter of Thea.

As much as Cleo hated the idea, she could brave whatever judgement came tumbling down that ladder when class time ended. But she _had_ to talk to Thea. She had to at least explain herself. The way she'd handled the situation had been so… _inappropriate_.

So, she waited it out.

She parked herself in a corner with her chemistry text, skimming old chapters to kill the time. Eventually, the sound of footsteps rumbled above her. The trap door opened.

Oddly, Thea was the first one out, her descent on the ladder more of a slide. Better than any of the other students, she supposed. She didn't think she could confront them right now. Cleo pushed off the wall, calling at once: "Thea?"

The girl stopped dead, her head snapping in Cleo's direction. She offered the girl an apologetic smile. However, with barely a pause, Thea turned on her heel and ran down the flight of stairs.

Cleo picked up in a trot after her. "Thea?"

The girl did not relent in her attempt to escape. Cleo was only _just_ able to head her off into one of the alcoves past the base of the Tower stairs, using the length of her arms to block her from escaping. "Thea, stop-"

"Cleo!"

The girl struggled to push past her body as Cleo pressed it against the side of the alcove, impeding her escape.

"Please let me explain-"

"No," Thea whined. "Not right now! I want to be alone!"

Not right now? "I won't blame you if you're mad at me. How I acted was _horrible_ -"

"Cleo!" she bleated. "It's not _that_. Please, I just want to go-"

Cleo watched the girl, suddenly more alert. "Did something happen?"

"Yes-" the girl allowed to slip, before she grimaced. "No! Just-"

"Thea," Cleo murmured in soft, soothing tones. "What happened? What's wrong?"

" _Nothing!_ " the girl insisted.

"What is _wrong?_ "

"I want to be alone!" Thea pleaded, the tears emerging in her voice. She hid her face, humiliated.

The two of them froze as the sound of feet scraped behind them. Thea slammed her body into the corner, and Cleo remained as she was, back to the stairs, arms pinioned on either side of the alcove, her robes acting as a courtesy veil. It wasn't until the sounds of the footfalls faded into the distance that Cleo spoke again, tender. "Please talk to me."

Thea's shoulders struggled with the weight of her breathing, and she shook her head against the wall, her curls bobbing haphazardly against her back. "I want to be alone," she groused.

"I know," Cleo said, leaning her head against her forearm. "And if you tell me again, I'll let you go."

Thea turned her face, looking up at the older girl squarely.

"But I'm your friend," she reminded the first year. "You can talk to me. You don't have to deal with this alone. Whatever this is."

They stood at an impasse, their eyes beholding one another as the girl considered this. Her reticence seemed to fade, if only because it seemed she recognized _solidarity_. A _safety_ , Cleo hoped.

"Trelawney-" Thea's voice petered out.

Cleo had the sinking feeling that she knew what the girl was about to say. However, she didn't speak. She turned into the alcove, allowing Thea more room to move, and gave her time to build courage again.

"Trelawney…" Thea tried again, holding her stomach. "You saw it too, didn't you? She was-"

Footsteps echoed down to where they stood, fast paced, silencing Thea in an instant. Harry and his friend came into view, their steps stalling out as they took in the scene.

Harry spoke first. "Is everything, um… You alright?"

Thea's distress mounted and Cleo turned to them quickly. "Not right now," she warned them, quiet. "Could you please just give us a moment-"

"What's it matter?" the cry burst from Thea as she slammed herself against the wall again. She pulled her hands over her face. "Now everyone can see. I _told_ you, I wanted to be alone, and now _everyone_ knows-!"

Cleo knelt beside her, grasping her upper arms. "Hey, hey- listen to me. It's just them. And Harry's a nice boy-"

"Who cares if he's _nice?_ " Thea sobbed, trying to bury herself out of sight again. "He _knows_ and now everyone's going to _know_ , they're going to _see_ -" The cry that tore through her was painful and childish, familiar enough that she felt an urge to hold the girl close. Cleo barely resisted acting on it.

"Hey," Harry addressed her, voice hushed and cautious. "Er, nobody really… Most people don't really believe anything Trelawney says…"

Oddly, Weasley attempted to assist as well, his voice gruff. "Nobody believes what Harry and I say, either."

"Say?" Cleo cut in, frowning, before she searched Thea's expression again. "Did she say something to you?"

"Who cares what she-" Thea sputtered, the words carried on a hiccup. "That's not-"

"What is it, then?" Cleo consoled her, patient.

Thea's eyes, red and glassy, darted between Cleo's face and the boys that stood just behind her. Her gaze plummeted to the floor, and something within her seemed to recede. That same look Cleo observed earlier, when Thea saw Trelawney first.

Trying to catch it before Thea shut it away, she tried, grasping the girl's arms tighter, "Thea-"

"I don't want to die."

The sentence slid down between them, timid and mild. But then, Thea's eyes jolted up, catching Cleo's, more earnest and awash with a fresh batch of tears. She tried it again, more urgent: "I don't want to die!"

It wasn't a whole truth. Not even close. Not to the one she was going to share when they had properly been _alone_. But it did appear like the upfront truth; the truth that stood before them, panicked and wild. A truth that she should address, before any of her own suspicions could be worked through. Her hands slid to the girl's elbows, propping them up. "Die? What are you talking about?"

When the girl didn't answer, Cleo turned to the other two. "What is she talking about?"

Weasley was the one who answered. "Trelawney sort've went a bit off her block and told her she was gonna be turned to ash."

"She paired up with Thea after you left, to ah- divine her future," Harry filled in the blanks. "And, er… yeah."

" _Absolutely mental,_ that one. Going on about how she'd suffer horribly, burnt up until there was nothing left and-"

" _Ron_ , can you not? She's standing right there."

"Oh." He at least looked abashed, his concerned glance going to Thea. "Yeah. Sorry."

Cleo turned to the first year, appalled. How could Trelawney do something like that? Sure, Cleo had acted _horrendously,_ but to take it out on an eleven year old-

"Is that what she told you?"

Thea's head dipped into a solitary nod, nothing more.

"It's completely ridiculous," Cleo promised, finding herself scrambling to say _something_ that could comfort. "She was picking up on the images around her, okay? She saw you burn in fire because there was a fire _right there_. It was like a cold reading. You know about that?"

Thea shook her head. "It's not _that_ -"

"Yeah, you don't need to worry on that account," Harry commented, quiet. "She predicts people's deaths every other day, and we're all fine."

"Right," Ron budged in, his tone more subdued as well, the most gentle she'd ever heard it, really. "Bit of a nutter, that one. She's cooked up ways Harry's gonna die loads of times. Once every year now, I reckon."

"But you _are_ going to die," Thea pointed out, darkly.

"Well-" Harry frowned.

"No, he's not," Cleo broke in, ducking her head down so she could look Thea in the eye. "And I'm not going to die. Weasley's not going to die. _You're_ not going to die."

This, out of everything Cleo had ever said to the girl, upset her the most. "Yes, I am!" she exclaimed, tearing her body out of Cleo's grasp. "That doesn't work on me! You can't lie like that! I _am_ going to die!"

Her sobs starting anew, Cleo lifted her hands, supplicant. "I know Trelawney can sound incredibly _convincing_ at times. But I promise you, it's theatrics. She's not a Seer. You're not going to die." Cleo's eyes closed and she shook her head. "I shouldn't have even brought you-"

"But _I am!_ " the girl wept. " _Everyone_ dies! Potter will die! Trelawney will die! _You_ will die! My _mums_ will die!" Running out of steam, Thea took in a shuddering breath, her voice broke in with a timid: " _I'm_ going to die."

What Thea meant slammed into her; what she'd been trying to say the entire time.

Well, that was a losing game, wasn't it? Arguing against the existential? Arguing against a universal truth?

Cleo crept closer to her again. "You're right," she conceded. "But that won't happen for a very long time, Thea. And _not_ how she said."

The girl's voice drooped with her posture. "You can't know that."

Harry tried to help. "It's nothing to worry about right now; you know, there's- there's Madame Pomfrey and other teachers to help out, and-"

Thea's head shook. "I don't know… how many times, I've seen my mum work on girls _my_ age… or younger," she admitted, fingers curling apprehensively at her robes . "And you see them at the funeral, and you just _know_. That can be _me_ …"

"It _won't_ be you," Cleo told her. "Do you know how fast I'd be there if I even caught the smallest _hint_ of you being in danger? Nevermind the lengths your mothers would go. And I know they're not here - but _I am_. And I wouldn't let anything happen to you. I promise."

"You can't promise that-"

"I am," Cleo asserted, grave. "I promise that for as long as I exist in your life, I _will not_ allow anything to happen to you. And that if you're ever scared of anything, _you can come to me_. I will protect you."

" _Everyone_ has someone who'd protect them," Thea argued, voice quivering. "But sometimes, that's not enough. Sometimes things just _happen_ , Cleo."

It was a cynical position, but one that Cleo couldn't argue against. To a degree, the girl was right. Not everything could be safeguarded. But there was nothing productive in worrying about it. When she glanced down at Thea's hands, they were huddled close together, just at the girl's left hip. Her fingers dug nervously into the crest of her wrist, leaving painful, crescent shaped-marks the more the girl absentmindedly squeezed.

Cleo reached up to grasp them, stilling the girl. "Okay."

Thea blinked, nonplussed, two swollen tears crawling down the sides of her face.

"You're going to die," Cleo announced softly. "So, what do we do about that?"

"Nothing," Thea whimpered, biting the inside of her cheek. "You can't stop it."

"Maybe not," Cleo agreed. "But we can figure out why it scares you so much."

Thea sniffed. "I don't know-"

"Just think about it," she urged, gentle. "When you think about how much it scares you, what's the first thing that pops into your head?"

The girl hesitated, vacillating on one foot to the other as she stared at Cleo with a prominent frown. "I don't know. Just-" She stopped, and Cleo could feel the girl's hand squeezing hers, nervous. "I'm too young. There's still things I- things I want to do."

"You know-" Weasley's voice was strong and clear when it reached them, drawing their attention. "Last year, my dad nearly died. Got attacked by a magic creature. It was… _really_ serious. But y'know what he was on about the moment we got in to see him?" He paused, as if waiting for a response, before going on. "He's reading the paper, wittering on about some bloke named Willy Widdershins getting arrested for something or other, all pleased as punch about his new mates he's sharing a room with."

The boy shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Here we were, losing sleep for worry about him, and we go in and he's asking _us_ how we are, like nothing's happened!"

Thea looked at him, scowling. "And?"

"Point being," he emphasized, fixing her with a stare. "I thought he was mental at the time, but what's he meant to do, mope about? Or would he much rather be spending time with his family, making the most out of those breaths he's got left?"

Harry added, quiet, "Mr. Weasley always has been a very cheerful person."

"He's right, too," Cleo affirmed. "All we can do is make sure our time is not wasted. So-"

Cleo suddenly stood to her full height, bringing the girl's hands up with her, hoisted just above her head. "If there was anything - I mean _anything_ \- you could do right now, what would it be?"

Thea pulled her hands away, bringing them back down to her sides. "I don't know," she replied, flustered. "There's not… It's not like there's a lot to do…"

Something dawned on Cleo, then. A spark of recognition flashed over her expression and she glanced over her shoulder, staring out onto the grounds that peeked in through one of the slats in the stone of the Tower. "What if we did something crazy?"

"What?"

Cleo's head snapped back in Thea's direction. "Do you trust me?"

Thea's deliberation seemed only to be half a second. "Y-Yeah."

Cleo grasped the girl's hand and pulled her out of the alcove. "C'mon."

"Hold on," Thea objected, though she didn't attempt to wriggle out of the older girl's grasp. "What are we doing?"

"I told you," Cleo replied, flashing the girl a slight smile as she began to lead her down toward the second flight of stairs. "Something crazy."

Behind them, she heard Weasley's voice bounce around the stone walls. "What's she on about?"

Harry evidently didn't reply, but, moments later, the redhead simply appeared close behind, directing his next question to Cleo herself, "Oi, what is it you're up to, Croft?"

"Sorry, I'm not in the mood to get snitched on," she called over her back, her steps pausing.

He looked positively affronted. "I'm no _snitch_ ," Weasley insisted, disdainful.

"Well I can't know that, can I?" Cleo countered. "What with Gryffindor's reputation for _integrity._ "

He snorted. "Oh, _right_. You've not met the twins, I take it."

"I'm unacquainted with the Weasley clan," Cleo pointed out, turning toward him. "But I don't see any of you sneaking around much."

"Well if you _saw_ us, then we wouldn't be any good, now would we?" Weasley retorted, hands on his hips. "So what's this, then?"

Cleo looked down at Thea, as if searching for permission, but the girl appeared just as bewildered as before.

It was stupid. Not very _cunning_ , when it came down to it, but...

"I want to take her to Hogsmeade," Cleo explained. "So I figure, we get in plain clothes, and we sneak out across the grounds."

"Oh _ho_ ," Weasley replied. "Some good ol' fashioned skiving off, is it?"

"But-" Thea fumbled. "Wouldn't we get in trouble?"

"Maybe," Cleo mused. "But, then it's a story, isn't it? And besides," she tilted her head, staring down at the girl with a smile, "you said you wanted to show me where Saturn was, didn't you?"

Thea's expression crumpled up. "What's that got to do with-"

"If you think the Astronomy Tower has a good view of the stars," Cleo told her, "just wait until you see the plateau beneath the Shrieking Shack."

"Actually," Harry cut in, then, having evidently decided to approach them. "You don't even really have to properly sneak out to get to Hogsmeade."

Cleo squinted at him. "How d'you mean?"

He and his friend exchanged a look before he continued, "There's secret tunnels within Hogwarts that lead directly there. We can show you one?"

"You'd do that?"

Weasley shoved his hands in his pockets, his gaze drifting to the side. "It's not a big deal; just don't tell anyone we told you."

"You sure you can trust a Slytherin not to?" she prodded, perhaps a bit unwisely.

He glared at her, then. "Dunno, can I?"

Harry made a quelling gesture between them. "It's fine. If we get in trouble, so do you. And I think we'd all rather stay detention-free, right?"

Cleo shook her head. "No, you're right. I'm sorry."

He looked between them all, soaking up the quiet for a moment before he said, conspiratorial, "So? Shall we go?"

Weasley crossed his arms, mumbling an agreement.

"Plain clothes is still a good idea," Cleo pointed out. "So, we should meet somewhere."

Harry nodded once, instructing, "By the Whomping Willow, in fifteen minutes."

"What? The Whomping Willow?" Thea balked. "Isn't that dangerous?"

Weasley's grimace was sympathetic. "Yeah, very. But it'll be worth it."

Looking at the two boys, their eyes seemed to be shining at the prospect of unsanctioned adventure. For what it was worth, once the shock had worn off, Thea appeared quite excited too, but, despite it all being her idea, Cleo couldn't help but notice the specter of dread pressing, heavy and oppressive, against her shoulders.

••••••••••

When they finally arrived at Cleo's favorite stargazing spot, the landscape had fallen to deep purples and blues, the scant light at their backs from Hogsmeade obscured by foliage. She could hardly believe they had passed the whole of the day away, taking Thea around to virtually everything there was to see in the village.

Weasley was huffing and puffing at Harry's side, still carrying the spoils from their excursion, parcels from Honeydukes, Zonkos, Tomes and Scrolls, Spintwitches, Gladrags, Dominic Maestro's, and even some takeaway from the Three Broomsticks… It was an insane amount of things for any one person to transport, but Weasley had insisted on hefting Thea's in addition to his own, and almost all of it had been purchased by Harry, though he'd bought absolutely nothing for himself. A strange pair, those two.

"I've er, never been this far out," Harry remarked, gazing out across the landscape. "Everyone's been around the Shrieking Shack, but I never thought to go… _past_ it."

"Because there's nothing around for ages," his friend pointed out.

"That's why it's perfect," Cleo informed them, her head tilted toward the sky. "Makes it easier to see what's up there."

Weasley lifted his head to squint above, but Harry was surveying the landscape. "The grass might still be wet from that rain yesterday."

"Nothing a drying charm can't fix," Thea pointed out, her eyes glued to the canopy of stars above.

At that, Harry looked alarmed. "But we're still underage-!"

Cleo shrugged. "I'm not."

Weasley gave his friend a strange look. "She already got us out of the Shrieking Shack with magic, Harry."

"Oh." The boy frowned. "Sorry, guess I… wasn't really paying attention."

"Well," Cleo breathed, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Glad to know I don't come off as an old hag quite _yet_."

Harry merely hummed in acknowledgement, while Weasley awkwardly tried to balance his myriad of parcels on one arm, evidently to stretch out his shoulder. Cleo, not wasting time, pulled her wand from her jean pocket and began to delineate a large patch of grass in a similar way she had learned during her detentions with Professor Tenenbaum, muttering a soft drying charm all the while.

As the three of them settled, Thea remained where she was standing, her eyes planing across the night time sky as twilight began to seep from the corners of the horizon.

Cleo leaned back on her arms. "Well?"

Thea barely acknowledged her with a soft: "Huh?"

"Show me where Saturn is."

Thea tossed her head over her shoulder, forehead wrinkling. "Already?"

"Well, it's why we're here!" Cleo laughed. "Thought you could dazzle us with your vast array of knowledge about the universe."

"Yeah, we deserve a good dazzle after a hard day's work," Weasley yawned, flopping onto his back with a thud while Harry rested his arms on his bent knees.

"Well," Thea hummed, her body lifting as she stood on her toes. "It's not going to be as impressive without a telescope, but…" Cleo watched as the girl peered into the collection of stars, her teeth caught on her bottom lip in thought. It took a few moments, but the girl pointed westward, her finger hooking on a small cluster of darkness as she took a step back. "There."

Cleo squinted. "Where?"

Her pointing grew more earnest. " _There._ "

Weasley huffed. "Well, my guess was way off."

"No wonder we're not in N.E.W.T. Astronomy," Harry remarked, wry.

"Still can't see it," Cleo remarked, straining her eyes.

"It's the dim looking star," Thea explained. "She's not as bright this time of year."

Weasley turned to look at her, considering. "Maybe you could find it on your new scarf."

Thea looked down at the cloth hanging loosely around her neck, dimly illuminating her face as the embroidered stars glimmered in a pool of navy blue. "It's a drawing, though," she said. "Not the same as looking at her for real."

He shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose. Should've got a telescope while we were out."

Harry adjusted his glasses, staring upward. "Don't think you'd be able to carry much more, Ron."

"I could've," Cleo chimed in, breezy. "Still can carry some of those packages on the way back, y'know."

"I've got it," he grumbled, not budging from his earlier convictions.

Cleo rolled her eyes, returning her attention to Thea. "Don't get too comfy. I might start quizzing you on constellations."

The girl snorted. "Child's play."

"How am I supposed to have any fun if I can't even make you break a sweat?" Cleo teased. "So, little genius, can you tell me where Jupiter is?"

Without hesitation, Thea replied: "I can't."

"Hah-!"

"'Cause Jupiter isn't visible this time of night," she interjected, cocksure. "Her orbit has her above the horizon in the early evening at this point of the year. We missed her."

"You know a lot about it, for a first year," Harry commented with a sidelong glance.

"I just really love space," Thea admitted, sounding more enthralled than Cleo had ever heard.

"Glad _you_ like it," Weasley said to her, turning to lean on his side, "but me? I don't see the appeal. It's just loads of nothing and then some tiny lights so far away you can barely see them."

Thea's body turned in a motion so jilted and earnest that Cleo was afraid she'd topple over. "That's not true at all! There's so much _substance_ to our universe, our galaxy, even our little solar system! It's so _massive_ that you can feel _woozy_ just trying to wrap your head around it, not to mention how it just goes on _infinitely_ , continually _expanding_ since the very beginning of time itself-"

"Look at you, on about the beginning of time, and _infinity_ ," he said, his tone laced with trepidation as he gazed up at the sky.

"Think Ron's more suited to things like chess," Harry saw fit to comment. "Where you can see all the pieces, know exactly where you stand."

His friend grimaced. "Don't make me sound like some daft muppet!"

Harry held up his hands in surrender, and the two of them seemed to achieve an unspoken understanding, since Weasley let go of his indignation a moment later.

"I don't know," Thea murmured, her attention going skyward once more. "I think… I _honestly_ think that there's no better way to know where you stand when you look up there and you realize that every little dot in the sky is a star system of its own, with its own planets orbiting about it, so numerous that you can't even begin to count them and you just… _know_ that you're a small part of something vast and… and…"

"Unfathomable," Cleo broke in with quiet reverence, her chin perched upon her knee as she observed the girl with the barest hint of a smile.

"Yeah," Thea sighed, beaming as she cradled the back of her head with her hands. "Yeah."

From his spot on the ground, Weasley shrugged, commenting, "Mmm… no. Still not my cuppa."

"Shows what _you_ know," Thea replied, a bit snotty.

"Oi! _Rude_ ," he shot back, though his tone entirely lacked any bite.

Thea wasn't particularly bothered, her mind elsewhere. After a time, she shifted onto her heels, tugging her robes closer around her small frame. Then, with a furrowed brow, she remarked, "When I think about it, I get kind of jealous, I guess."

"Of what?" Cleo asked.

"Missing the space race," she answered. "Like, all the times we sent people to the moon and stuff."

Weasley about choked. " _What?_ Is that some kind of Muggle phrase I don't know?" This question he directed at Harry, who shrugged.

"Not that I've heard of."

"No, we actually sent people to the moon," Cleo told him, tilting her head.

This seemed only to confuse the boy further. "Whatever _for?_ "

Thea clasped her hands behind her back. "Politics."

The redhead squinted at her, forehead wrinkling. "So you expect me to believe there's just some blokes mucking about on the moon right now, nice as you please?"

"They didn't stay," Thea replied, pursing her lips. "They returned a bunch of times, but only six of the Apollo missions involved landing and walking on the moon."

Harry chimed in, then. "What's politics got to do with it, then?"

The first year scratched her head, her sheepish smile breaking through the dusk. "So, after World War II, the Soviets and the Americans really loathed each other, and their fight got even worse when the Soviets launched this satellite called Sputnik. It was like… the first thing Muggles ever made that was sent into space. So, the Americans got scared, thinking the Soviets would be able to have a whole army up in space and-"

"Nope, can't make heads or tails of anything you just said," Weasley informed her, turning in the direction of Cleo and Harry as if pleading for help.

Taking pity on him, Harry said, "I mean, I don't see how people going to the moon is such a shock to you, considering magical people do all sorts of impossible things every day."

His friend's nose scrunched as he replied, "I don't know what you mean."

"Most people aren't used to magic," Cleo told him, matter-of-fact. "I mean, it's a commodity in the non-magical world. Magicians are practically celebrities, and they're only utilizing illusionary tricks to pull off what they do. They can make a coin disappear from their hand, but you know that they've only moved it to somewhere you can't see it. Wizards can _actually_ disappear that coin. Lots of people would consider that impossible."

"Muggles are a bit backwards, if you ask me," Weasley saw fit to point out.

Harry shot the other boy a look. "You remember that Croft's parents are Muggles, yeah?"

"I'm not saying-" He cut himself off as he sat up, grunting as he went. "All I meant was, it's a mite off for Muggles to regularly swan off to the moon for teatime, but these 'magicians' still only pretend they have magic!"

"Well, I mean, what else can we do?" Cleo replied, her words riding on a chuckle. "I guess science is as close to magic as we can get, but-"

" _You_ can do magic though, Cleo," was Thea's soft reply, her gaze at her rather pointed and bewildered.

Cleo's lips slanted. "You know what I mean."

"There's plenty of Muggles who don't really care about any of that stuff," Harry remarked, chin resting atop his forearms. "The Dursleys never mentioned people going to the moon."

"Well, _they're_ as backward as it gets," Weasley countered, voice going suddenly hard.

Harry shrugged, expression suddenly gone odd. "At any rate, I guess we can assume there haven't been any wizards to the moon, then?"

His friend shook his head. "Nope. Though I'm sure some crazy old hermit somewhere has wanted to try it out."

" _I_ want to do it," Thea stated very confidently, glancing between the three of them. "So I'll be the first witch in space."

Weasley's eyebrows raised, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "Yeah?"

"Does Britain even have a space program?" Cleo asked, sitting up again.

"Yeah," Thea murmured. "Not as big as America's, but-" the girl paused, her head tilting upward.

"But?" Cleo prompted.

The girl stood there in a few silent moments of deliberation. "Hm," she hummed, letting out a soft exhale from her nose. "I might have to move to America."

"Ugh, don't do that," Weasley groaned.

"America's not so bad," Cleo said. "It's where my mum is from."

"Well, Percy was always on about-" He stopped talking, letting the rest of his air rush out of him.

Curious, she turned her gaze to Harry for an explanation, but he instead changed the subject. "I didn't know your mum was American."

She knew a hint when she saw one. Touchy subject. Right then. "Yeah. Born, raised, run aground there. When she needed a vast change of scenery, she ended up in England. She met my dad, and the rest is history."

"Does she miss it?" he inquired.

Her stomach did a somersault. "Don't think so," she answered, a bit guarded. "I can't be sure, though. Hard to know with her."

"Hm." Harry's eyes drifted back toward the horizon. "I've never really been anywhere outside of Britain."

By then, Weasley was recovered. "Egypt was nice and all, but I prefer it here honestly."

"I get that," Cleo agreed, wrapping her arms around her pulled up knees. "I'm a bit of a homebody, too."

"Some of my family's scattered about," he replied, laying on his back once more. "Got a brother in Romania, even."

"That's far," commented Thea, who had drifted down to the ground, her legs splayed out in front of her.

"Mum's about bit her nails to the quick worrying when he'll lose an arm or what have you," Weasley snorted. Cleo and Thea shared a bemused look before he seemed to realize there was crucial context missing from his statement. "Oh- he uh, works with dragons."

"Well _that's_ certainly an occupation," Cleo remarked, a bit taken aback. "So, how does one go about figuring out they want to work with dragons?"

"Not sure everything that went into it," he admitted, scratching the side of his nose. "I know Dad took him to some kind of festival, and that's where he saw one for the first time, but... Charlie's seven years older, so he graduated Hogwarts just before I came in."

"I always wished I had a brother or sister," Thea chimed in, sounding wistful. Her voice held the thrum as if she had intended to say a great deal more, but her silence forced itself on her, lumbering and indelicate.

Cleo looked the girl over, quick to fill in the quiet: "Well, I'll be your older sister, then."

Thea rolled her eyes. "Oh _jeez_ -"

"And as your older sister, my first act will be to ask you," Cleo drew herself up with exaggerated prowess, "are you doing home schooling right now?"

The girl seemed slightly taken aback by this. "Uh, no."

"Well, my little STEM sibling, you might want to get on that."

Thea glanced down into her lap, pensive. "Oh. You know, I didn't really think about that…"

Weasley snorted. "What, more school? Don't have enough of it already?"

Cleo addressed him, calm. "Well, it becomes necessary when you…" She paused, redirecting her attention to the girl. "You want to be an astronaut, right? Or astrophysicist? Something like that?"

Thea's nod was sharp.

"So, you're going to need to keep up with your non-magical schooling," Cleo informed her. "Like how I did - spent my summers doing coursework from primary school to secondary."

This was a bit much for the redhead. "School _year-round?_ Are you mental?"

"Was it hard?" Thea asked, ignoring Weasley's complaint.

"Sometimes, I suppose?" Cleo answered, head canted. "It can get overwhelming if you don't keep to a strict schedule and skip assignments. For me, at least, it was relatively manageable."

Thea appeared slightly put off by this. "I'm _wretched_ at time management," she complained.

"Well, that's what I'm here for, isn't it?" Cleo gingerly asserted, her smile sweeping across her face.

"What do you mean?"

Cleo leaned her torso against her legs. "Where do you live?"

"Southampton," Thea answered, uncertain.

"Two hour train ride, not too bad," Cleo mused. "I'd be happy to come help tutor you through the hard parts."

Thea stared at her. "You'd do that for me?"

"I've been through it before," Cleo explained. "I know how frustrating it can be. I'd be happy to help. I could even bring Gabriel, if you want to meet him and if it's alright with your parents."

A smile lit up the girl's face. "Oh, yeah! That'd be fun. You don't think he'd be bored, watching you help me study?"

Cleo's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I'd like to instill that boy with a proper admiration for learning."

Thea giggled. "Like you?"

She smirked. "Of course."

"Guess you'll have the time for all that without Hogwarts clogging your schedule," Weasley commented, his tone neutral as he stretched his shoulder again.

A jolt of unease shot up her spine as her head snapped to him. What on _earth_ would possess him to say something like that?

Thea's response was nothing more than a soft, bewildered laugh before she asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Weasley was horrendously tight lipped in light of _that_. And he had the gall to stare at her, completely dense. She could've throttled him.

"Cleo?" Thea urged, growing anxious from the pervasive silence.

She looked down, pressing her lips together.

The girl sat up straighter. "What does he mean by that, Cleo?"

Her pause was prolonged even further as she grappled with how to even begin addressing this. Her first word betrayed her completely. "Listen-"

"Oh my _God,_ " the girl gasped, her voice strained.

Cleo leaned forward, frowning. "Thea-"

But by then, the girl had rose and begun stomping back in the direction of the Shrieking Shack. Cleo scrambled to her feet.

 _Now_ Weasley managed to find his voice, if only to thickly question, "What's going on?"

"The fuck do you think?" Cleo snapped, brushing the grass stains off her skirt. "Good bloody work there, Weasley."

He turned redder than his hair, his glare at the ready, although his retort was not exactly polished. "Sod off! I didn't do anything!"

"Sure," she shot back, virulent. Her steps carried her briskly in the direction that Thea had disappeared to, air burning in her lungs.

Maybe she was being unreasonable. Maybe there wasn't any precedent for him to take a lion's share of the blame. But all the same, this _sucked_.

She caught sight of a wisp of wiry hair just over a grassy knoll and hastened her steps, calling out into the darkness: "Thea, wait!"

She was met with silence, the girl's steps continuing at a stalwart pace. Cleo sighed loudly.

"Thea, please."

Nothing.

Then, just as she came into a slow trot at the first year's side, she tried, "Thea, really. I'm so sorry."

 _That_ invoked something in the girl, though not what Cleo expected. The girl's expression bunched up, furious. "Do you even know what you're sorry _for?_ "

"That I have to go," Cleo attempted, her tone careful and mild. "I know it hurts. But it's not as if you'll never see me again, you know? I'm not going to shut you out-"

"You're so-" Thea's voice halted with a harsh, frustrated yelp. "You know you're really dumb sometimes, right?"

Cleo allowed for that slight with a good humored smile, leaning down slightly in hopes to catch Thea's gaze. "Yes, I do."

"I'm not _playing,_ " Thea snapped, not having it. "Take me seriously, or don't talk to me. I don't want to be treated like a _kid_."

"I'm not trying to patronize you."

"Then what do you call not telling me?" the girl shoved her with this accusation, her breath hitching in her throat. "What do you call forcing me to hear it from some complete bloody stranger?"

"Disrespect," Cleo offered. "I should have told you."

"Yes, you _should have_ ," Thea emphasized. "But you didn't."

"Would it matter if you knew why I didn't?"

Thea's legs picked up pace again as she spat, agitated, " _No._ "

Cleo's long strides made it rather easy to keep up with her. "I was scared, Thea."

" _Scared,_ " the girl mocked, shoving her hands into her pockets.

"Yes, Thea, scared," Cleo insisted. "I get scared sometimes, too."

The girl stopped rather suddenly, making Cleo waver and stutter to a halt. "You're an adult," Thea pointed out rather coldly. "You don't _get_ to be scared."

For the first time, Cleo felt herself dangerously close to losing her temper with the girl. "That's _completely_ unreasonable, Thea."

"What's _unreasonable_ is what you're doing!" the first year shouted.

"What am I doing?"

"Giving up!"

"It's a bit more complicated than that. If _anything,_ I thought _that_ would be something you'd understand," Cleo pointed out, perhaps a bit unfairly.

By Thea's rapid shift in demeanor, Cleo could tell she didn't appreciate it. Her shoulders tensed, face tightened, the pallor around her eyes and cheeks flushing a deep crimson. Cleo felt the guilt like a punch to the gut.

"Shit," she whispered, harsh. "I'm sorry-"

" _Stuff_ your apologies up your arse!" the girl exclaimed, her entire face straining as if she were attempting to hold back what Cleo could see was coming: Her eyes had gone glassy, and the redness had permeated toward her nose.

This was getting out of hand. Fast.

"That wasn't good of me, I know," Cleo attempted to smooth over. "But-"

"How can you think of me like that?" The girl fiercely interrupted, her voice stumbling so much that Cleo felt her heart sink. "Scared? Because of what? What would I do? Quibble and hate you and treat you like rubbish because I have to share you with your son? With your family? That I'm so selfish that I'd throw a tantrum? I bet this confirms it now, huh? All the bad things you thought of me? That kept you from telling me?"

"No," Cleo said softly, tenderly, as she lowered herself to Thea's height. "I didn't-"

"Stand up!" Thea screamed, taking a step back. Her hands went up to the sides of her face, as if she felt the rush of something triumphant and frightening. "Stop doing that! I hate it!"

Cleo immediately stood up, her hands held up, contrite and pleading. "I'm sorry."

"Stop saying sorry!" the girl shrieked. "Just stop _doing this_ -" Thea's face faded as she turned her back on Cleo, shoulders shaking with heavy breaths. Watching her, Cleo knew that this went far beyond what was happening _now_. She recognized it. The girl was torn between two places, fighting for balance.

All Cleo could do was stand there, waiting, watching her breathe. In a moment, the girl seemed to find herself again.

"Sorry." Thea's words were clipped, still drenched with the tears the girl clearly didn't want her to see.

"Please don't be," Cleo entreated, unsure how to position herself. "I understand."

"Do you," the words collapsed from her, deadpan.

Attempting another track, Cleo rounded the girl from the side, frowning. "If something else is going on," she began, mild and reassuring, "you can talk to me."

Thea's head turned away from her in what appeared to be instinct. Her answer was nothing but a redirection. "So that's it, then?"

"I know you think I'm giving up, Thea, but-"

"You _are_ giving up," she insisted, her words honey-thick, swollen with implication.

"I realized that what I _want_ and what's _good_ for my family are two entirely separate things."

"What's good for your family?" Thea questioned, still staunchly refusing to look at her.

"Being absent from my son's life isn't good for him," Cleo explained, growing emotional herself. She paused and cleared her throat before continuing. "I have to _be_ his mother. If that means attending university in the non-magical world and comporting myself there, then I'll do it."

"Won't you have to be away for uni, too?" Thea challenged. "Aberdeen is in Scotland, too."

"I can bring him with me-"

"And live where?" the girl questioned, rapid fire. "Where will you get work? How are you going to balance doing school, being a mum, and working? What about-"

"Thea," Cleo broke in. "I'll figure it out. I'm hardly the first single mother to manage such a thing. And I'm not alone. I have help."

"You just don't want to be here," Thea accused.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Cleo shot back, agitated.

It was then that Thea turned to face her, red faced and teary, earnest in a way that made Cleo feel uneasy. "You _deserve_ to be here. You know that, right?"

Cleo was at a loss for words. She struggled, watching as the girl's eyes peered into hers, beseeching. Unsettled, Cleo's arms barricaded her chest, a gesture so ridiculous and _defensive_ that she scowled. Defend herself from _what?_ This _child?_ "Thea..." she waffled, grimacing. "Of course I do."

" _Do_ you?" the girl underlined, sounding skeptical. "Because I wonder sometimes. You never act like it. It's almost like you believe them."

"Them?" she found herself questioning rather uselessly. It wasn't hard to work out what the first year meant.

"Being here _means_ something," Thea told her. "And if you can't do it then… What does that say-" Thea hesitated. Her eyes slipped to the ground. "What does that mean for-"

"It's not-" Cleo stammered, feeling her fingers fidget against her arm. "Thea, it has _nothing_ to do with that."

"Then don't give up," Thea begged, stepping forward to grasp Cleo's taut forearms. " _Please_."

Here it was. Thea's last ditch effort. Her heartfelt plea. The one that she, no doubt, imagined would break through and make Cleo see _reason_. That would make Cleo realize that she was running away. That she had to be _brave_. It reminded Cleo of when they first met; the depth between them so vast that she couldn't help but observe Thea's conduct still held a twinge of the _cinematic_.

Though, perhaps that was cruel to think. Perhaps the girl was right; Cleo didn't _show_ she took her seriously.

So, she had to try, didn't she? Address her with a modicum of respect, reason with her like an adult?

This time, it wasn't a word that betrayed her. Just the tone and distance of her voice. "Thea-"

The girl released her and stepped away, her expression hardening. "Nope."

Cleo's arms dropped to her sides, her frown growing prominent as she watched as the first year began to walk away again. "Listen to me-"

"I heard you," Thea called back.

"I don't think you did."

"I _heard_ you," Thea repeated, her steps not slowing. "We disagree. Let me be mad."

Cleo began her pace anew, staring at the back of the girl's head. "We're not leaving it here."

"You can't _fix_ this!" Thea shouted, turning to face her fully.

"I should have talked to you - _weeks_ ago. So let's _talk_. Really talk. And I won't-"

"Stop trying to _manage_ me!"

The girl's shriek pierced the gloom, so sudden and fierce that it forced Cleo's silence. They stood there at an impasse, the quiet filling in the gap, punctuated by the distant, muffled sound of Thea's heaving breaths.

Then, when the tension had its fill of their deadlock, the girl straightened herself, looking Cleo dead in the eye.

"Let me be mad," the small of her voice somehow managed to climb outward and reach her with a strength Cleo could hardly fathom. "Okay?"

Something clicked. Her head jerked into a nod. "Okay."

And the girl, tight mouthed and tense, marched away, cloaked by the dark and crowned by the stars.

••••••••••

"Erm… Miss… Croft, was it? Did you have a moment?"

Was this going to be a thing, now? Being accosted by Gryffindors after Charms? Hermione Granger stood in the aisle, hands placed primly behind her back, strands of hair escaping from the clip at the side of her head, and an overflowing bag of books slung over her shoulder. Cleo turned to her, eyebrow raised. "Sure. What did you need?"

"I don't think we've ever met properly," the girl said, her tone frank, but polite. "Hermione Granger." Her hand jutted out in front of her.

Cleo looked at it momentarily before reaching forward to shake it. "Right, I know who you are," she returned. "You're in a lot of my classes. Couldn't miss you."

Granger's chin lifted, but it seemed more a thoughtless act of self-collection than anything. "Let me be clear: I come to speak to you as Harry's friend, not as a Prefect or the top of our class."

She certainly had moxie, there was no doubt about that. "Right."

The girl placed her school bag on a nearby chair, clasping her hands before her in a neat, no-nonsense stance. "First off, I feel it pertinent to apologize for my friend's behavior earlier this week. Harry told me about how…" Her face scrunched momentarily as she searched out an appropriate word. "... _reprehensible_ his conduct toward you was."

"You don't have to," Cleo assured. "I understand where he's coming from."

This caught Granger off-guard. "That's…" She frowned. "Well I don't see _how_. You needn't excuse him."

"Gryffindor bravado is pretty easy to see through," Cleo explained. "He's very protective of Harry. I get it."

"Be that as it may," came her reply, her tone one of patience and formality. "I hope you understand that his behavior is not indicative of Gryffindor as a whole."

"Just like Malfoy and his ilk's behavior aren't indicative of Slytherin as a whole?" Cleo parroted back.

Granger didn't seem to have a ready answer to that, her gaze fixing in a far off corner of the room as her lips twisted in a manner that resembled a nervous tick. Gathering her thoughts, perhaps.

The silence dragged a touch too long than was comfortable for Cleo. "Presumably you had something you wanted to ask me?" she softly inquired.

"Yes- sorry," she rallied, adjusting her stance. "To, er… _preface_ … the boys told me you all went to Hogsmeade yesterday."

"Ah," Cleo sighed. "Right. I imagine they weren't pleased with my outburst."

The bushy-haired girl gave her a quizzical look. "Um, I can't really say, since they didn't mention anything of that sort."

"Oh, then-" Cleo frowned, nonplussed. "What about the trip, exactly?"

"Well. Ron's made a habit of skiving off, so it was hardly surprising for him not to be around, but Harry?" The girl drew in a breath. "When I didn't see him at lunch, I thought he might have been caught up by something. And when he didn't come to Charms - and Ron wasn't there either - I was quite upset with them both, going off somewhere together and shirking their responsibilities. I was going to give them an earful at dinner… but they never came. And by that time I'd started to worry."

"About?"

"About the fact that it was half seven, and no one had seen Harry at all since nine," Granger informed her, grave. "I asked around some of our housemates, his Quidditch teammates… Even our friends in other Houses admitted that they hadn't spotted him anywhere. I skipped my study group to look around the usual places, even visiting Hagrid to see if the boys had come to call-"

"I understand," Cleo broke into her long winded explanation, holding her hands up. "So, what do you want to say to _me_ about it?"

At this, the girl's tone became a touch more heated. "You say you understand, but I don't think you do," she stated. "And how can you? It's difficult for even his closest friends to truly understand how precarious his situation is. When it reached twelve hours that I hadn't seen or heard from them, I was forced to report his absence to Professor Dumbledore, who alerted all the teachers to search the castle and grounds."

Near flabbergasted, Cleo didn't have much time to consider her outburst until after it fumbled out of her: "Don't you think that was a bit of an overreaction?"

By Granger's expression alone, Cleo realized that this was, most definitely, the _wrong_ thing to say. "An overreaction?!" she echoed, each syllable pronounced with sharp clarity. "Harry has nearly been killed _every single year_ he's been at Hogwarts!"

"Is everything all right, ladies?" Flitwick's squeak traversed the room from where he sat at the podium, balanced on his usual stack of books. The classroom had completely emptied out by then.

Cleo looked over the girl before her once, careful, before addressing him. "Yes, Professor. Would you care for us to clear out?"

The little bobbin of a man looked between the two of him, prominent brow furrowed. "If you wouldn't mind," he said, polite but firm. "I have a class within the hour."

Granger visibly reigned in her anger, her shoulders twitching downwards with her every revitalizing breath. "Of course, Professor," she intoned, her voice remarkably even. She cast a glance at the man over her shoulder as she took hold of her bag. "Sorry to trouble you."

There permeated between them a troubling air as they trudged into the hallway, Granger's indignation hanging about her still. Granger was walking so quickly that she thought the girl would simply continue down the hall, cutting their communication short. Instead, she overtook Cleo's pace in order to round on her, the motion so severe that her hair went a little wild. "I know you weren't _here_ , so you can't possibly know what it was like the last time Harry disappeared," Granger prefaced, her anger evident. "He was only gone for an hour- _one hour_ \- but when, by some miracle, he returned, it was alongside a dead body."

Cleo wasn't sure what she could possibly say in response to that, harrowing a statement as it was. She couldn't ascertain what she was supposed to do with that information either, other than possibly pity the boy further. With a frown, Cleo attempted to dive to the point: "Would you like for me to apologize?"

The girl's arms folded; her answer ended up being another question. "Harry told me you have non-magic parents. Is that right?"

"Yes I do."

"Then you'll understand what I mean when I say- Being close to Harry is a bit like shutting yourself in the trunk of a car, except you have no idea who is driving or where you are going at all."

"Being close?" Cleo inquired, eyebrow raising.

Granger sighed. "To put it plainly, I don't know what your intentions are, but Harry seems to have taken a liking to you. And the more time you spend around him, the more dangerous your situation will become."

"I think you're overstating the case," Cleo objected. "We're not friends, he certainly isn't fond of me, and I'm only trying to help him figure out a way to get through Potions without Snape giving him such a hard time-"

"Funny you should mention him," the girl commented, placing a hand on her hip, "since Harry went to some lengths to ensure that Snape not be told that you were involved in his disappearance yesterday. Said you had to present a proposal to him, and Harry didn't want you to be punished on his behalf."

… Shit. _Shit_.

Her hand went to hold the side of her face as she stared down at the floor, gobsmacked. "That kid…" she murmured, brow furrowing. Shit. It hadn't even been his _idea_. "He didn't have to do that-"

"- But he _did_ , and that's rather the point, isn't it?"

Cleo's head shook. "I won't do it again," she vowed. "Get him in trouble like that."

Granger raised her eyebrows. "Let's hope not. But honestly? I think you shouldn't be around him at all."

"I understand you think I'm I'm a bad influence-"

"No," she replied. "I'm saying this because the moment someone calls Harry a friend, they become a target."

"I'm already a target," Cleo countered, frowning. She gestured between them. " _We're_ already targets."

The girl pursed her lips, disapproving. "Fine, but do you seriously want to put yourself in a worse situation than you already are?"

"What could possibly be worse?" she asked, head canting. "I'm marginalized, regardless who I associate with. Either I'm killed because I'm a Mudblood, or I'm killed because I'm a Mudblood who knows Harry Potter. At that juncture, the distinction doesn't account for much."

Granger's expression was both skeptical and watchful. "Interesting opinion, coming from a Slytherin."

"I thought we decided generalizations aren't helpful?"

She waved a hand. "I've known plenty of Slytherins who weren't categorically evil bigots," the girl divulged, "but the majority still refuse to acknowledge the reality of an impending Second Wizarding War."

"I think it's hard for children to grasp that notion in general," Cleo contended. "Especially privileged ones."

"They ignore the suffering of others to preserve their worldview," Granger said, voice hard. "It's Fudge all over again. How many more books need to be burned for them to take notice? How many more Muggleborns have to die to compel them out of their cowardice?"

"This is why you don't depend solely on the fleeting empathy of allies," Cleo disclosed, shrugging. "You focus your time and effort forming a coalition with those who struggle alongside you. This is what we build communities around."

Granger took in a breath, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. "Well…" Here she paused, looking Cleo up and down before she continued. "That's exactly what I'm already doing."

"That's great," Cleo said, resting her head against the wall.

"And you?"

"I never claimed I was even remotely useful."

She found herself on the receiving end of a condescending stare. "Well, why not? This fight involves you as much as anyone else."

"No specific reason," Cleo admitted. "Rarely has Hogwarts allowed an avenue for politics, much less in a way that was safe for people like us."

"The days of Hogwarts's blissful neutrality are over," Granger informed her, brimming with confidence. "I intend to make sure of it."

"How, exactly?"

"I've created a new organization, targeting the injustices inherent to those of us born without magical parents." She tucked a few strands of wayward hair behind her ear, standing straighter. "All I need are voices who want to be heard."

She certainly seemed confident, that was for sure. "Have you done something like this before?"

"Yes," she said, though with a slanted delivery. "And also… no. I created an activist organization last year, but I received some… _backlash_ from certain small-minded individuals."

"Backlash?"

With a short sigh, she expanded, "I founded the Society for Promotion of Elfish Welfare, which was meant to combat the forced enslavement of house elves, but wizards think that because the elves are _happy_ with their lives, that it's okay, what they're doing to them."

"Well define 'happy'," Cleo objected, suddenly heated. "Because every time I've interacted with a house elf, they're always in a state of panic and agitation-"

" _Exactly!_ " Granger let out, invigorated. "That's what _I've_ always said, but here's Ron on about how they don't want help so I ought to give it up-!"

"What do they expect them to act like? We're talking about generational _abuse_ , for God's sake-"

"- Not to mention the long history of internalized inadequacy, and their near fanatical devotion to their 'masters', where even the slightest deviation prompts self-harm as a cultural _necessity-_ "

"- as if this isn't something that's been conditioned? Like, what? Just because one has been abused to the point where they're content with their slavery, we're not allowed to call it an absolute evil-?"

"- which it _is_ , honestly, with these creatures being stripped of their identities, separated entirely from whatever natural habitat they previously thrived in, to the point where the origins and heritage of house elves have been lost to time and indifference-"

"- and we're just supposed to act as if that's an _acceptable consequence,_ as if these hierarchies aren't completely imposed and are instead the result of natural order. I mean, have we forgotten what happened in America? What _Britain_ used to do? But all of a sudden because you dare to be an abolitionist for a non-human creature you're unreasonable-"

"- what's _unreasonable_ is for wizards to assume that elves don't want freedom when they hardly even know what that looks like -"

"- there's _nuance_. And what can they expect, when the concept of freedom comes hand in hand with the threat of bodily harm? With _death?_ I thought that was very plainly obvious to anyone just paying half a whit of attention to their material reality?"

"Did you know-" Granger huffed, obviously forgetting to breathe during her diatribe. "Did you know, it's common practice for old Wizarding households to mount the heads of their previous house elves?"

" _What?_ " Cleo expelled in a harsh breath, scandalized. "You can't be serious?"

"I am! I've seen it with my own eyes; it's absolutely disgusting," she told her, expression pained. "And this isn't just something in the past, it's _now_ \- Wizards act as if it's completely normal!"

"I can't believe people don't see how cruel that is," Cleo gritted, appalled.

"Well, I mean, most people react like Harry," Granger sighed. "They think it's only 'bad' people who do this. And- I mean, Hogwarts has elves, but they don't- you know. _Behead_ them. So they figure it's alright so long as you give them a good home, where they aren't outright abused."

Cleo shook her head. "That's…"

"Horrid?" she finished for her. "Yes. But it's hard to get people to understand, or care, really. House elves are also a measure of status, so most ordinary wizards hardly see one the whole of their lives."

"And your friends… they were really against this?" Cleo questioned, her arms dropping to her sides.

Granger frowned. "I mean… Harry's mostly got quite a bit already on his mind. Can't blame him for focusing on the war first. And Ron, erm. Think he just disliked my methods."

"Your methods," she repeated. "What about them were disagreeable?"

The girl sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "You may think it _silly_ , but I knitted the elves hats and scarves, and left them about the common room."

Hm. It was weird to admit, but Weasley might have had a point. It wasn't the best strategy. "You need to come at it from the angle of providing them a safety net. Liberation is more than freedom - it's having the means to support the liberated. The house elves would need resources. A place to stay that's safe. A means to rehabilitate their psychological state. Stuff like that. That way they're not left to flounder when the panic sets in after they're given freedom with no clue what to do with it. Alone, no less."

Granger blinked, looking at Cleo as if she had two heads. "You… came up with all that just now? In about half a minute?"

"I'm repeating things I've heard from vastly smarter people on similar subjects," she corrected her.

"Well, _I've_ read that sort of thing before too," she mentioned. "I just didn't think to apply it to this."

"Outside perspective helps, I suppose."

"But… you don't think I'm mad?" Granger questioned, puzzled. "For wanting to free them when they don't want to be free?"

"I think you understand the concept of the greater good," Cleo told her. "And that, were the house elves in a better state of mind, were they healthy and not at the whims of abuse, they'd crave their freedom as well."

The other girl was quiet for a moment, in contemplation. Then, nodding absentmindedly, as if having come to an agreement with herself, she addressed Cleo once more. "You should join my new organization," she brazenly announced.

Taken aback at the abrupt nature of the invitation, Cleo frowned. "I would," she prefaced, glancing away. "But-"

"No 'buts'," Granger interrupted her. "If you know the danger to Muggleborns, and you have some worthwhile ideas about how to lessen the suffering we all have to endure, then what's stopping you?"

"The fact I might be withdrawing from the school soon," Cleo informed her, point-blank.

At that, the girl let out a disbelieving chuckle. "What do you mean? It's not even mid-term!"

"Yes, well, my educational plan was contingent on specific factors," Cleo expounded. "I have a chance to secure the spot I need to continue forward, but if I fail, I'm returning home."

"And what spot is that?"

"An advisory position under Professor Snape."

She could see the moment the realization hit the girl. "Ah, the meeting Harry didn't want to sabotage."

Cleo visibly winced. "Yes, that one."

There was a shrewd glint to Granger's eye as she posed her next question. "So, you're hinging your entire magical career on whether or not you impress Snape? Isn't that a bit…?"

"Over the top?" Cleo filled in for her, casual. "Maybe. But there are factors outside the school I have to consider."

"Your family, right?" the girl assumed. "But you must know that the more you contribute to better conditions here, the more your family will benefit from it."

Cleo shook her head. "My son doesn't. This decision to continue my magical education - this was for me. I had other avenues of making a life for myself that didn't involve abandoning my kid for the greater portion of two years. Hogwarts was my last shot of doing something important to me." Her chest felt painfully tight. It was weird, how much she told this absolute stranger. Yet the words flowed from her, effortless… Perhaps because she had no other means to purge them. "One last act of selfishness, I guess."

Granger's answering look was troubled. "You talk as if it's a foregone conclusion," she observed quietly. "Have you already had the meeting with Snape, then?"

"This evening," she admitted, crestfallen. "And I don't have anything."

"Oh." The girl frowned. "I see."

A solemn expression overcame Cleo's features as she looked Granger over again. "So, y'know. It is what it is."

"Is it?" Granger inquired, those two words sounding like a challenge. "Because it seems to me like this is less an act of fate, and more an act of self-defeat."

"It's hard to motivate when you begin to forget the reasons why something that mattered to you was important in the first place."

"Well then," the girl said, no-nonsense. "Let's start at the beginning, and try to remember."

"Don't you have better things to do?" Cleo questioned, skeptical.

" _No_ ," she declared in a manner that indicated that she _was_ actually meant to be elsewhere. Granger was a horrible liar, but her next words were quite earnest. "I think my time is better spent here."

"If I'm honest with you," Cleo broached, peering at the girl suspiciously, "I haven't really the slightest idea why you think that."

Granger's expression grew curious. "Well… I suppose you have your principles, and I have mine."

"I distinctly remember this conversation starting with a drastically different tone," she pointed out, albeit good humored.

Her lips curled in a small smile. "Let's just say, any friend to the house elves is a friend of mine."

Cleo doubted it was that simple. But, looking a gift horse in the mouth and all. "Well…" she muttered, shifting on the wall. "I'm not sure where to start with this conversation, anyway."

"Seeing as you're soliciting Professor Snape, can I assume you want to specialize in Potions?"

"For the most part, yes," Cleo answered. "The ultimate goal is mediwizardry, where a recommendation from an accomplished and renowned Potions Master like Severus Snape can get you far."

"Okay," Granger mumbled, thinking, "so what project did you need his advising for?"

"That's basically the problem," Cleo broached, timid. "My 'plans' were much too broad. Nothing that can be accomplished within the next couple of school years."

"Well, I mean, you could just develop a potion, right?"

"Not likely," Cleo scoffed. "That sort of thing is reserved for… I don't know, geniuses with an unlimited well of creativity to tap into."

"I wouldn't say _unlimited_ ," Granger argued. "We're talking about one potion, not the Fountain of Youth."

"Still, it takes an amount of ingenuity I don't possess."

"I don't believe that," the girl said, setting a hand on her hip. "All you need is one little idea, and - my mum always says ideas are like seeds. You plant them, care for them, watch them grow… and eventually, they'll bear fragrance, fruit, or _frippery_." Her smile caught the very end of the phrase.

It was contagious, she supposed, since Cleo found herself smiling too. "Maybe," she mused. "I mean - my goal… my _dream,_ I guess, is to bring the practice of gynecology and obstetrics to the Wizarding World. So… whatever potion I would engineer should revolve around that."

"Oh!" Granger's face lit up. "That's _brilliant_ , actually! It's such a broad subject, but I've read a lot about Wizarding Britain's startling infant mortality rate, the lack of practical knowledge, the societal taboos surrounding childbearing in general-"

"Bit of an autodidact, aren't you?" Cleo broke in, good natured.

The girl looked simultaneously proud and bashful. "I just like to read, is all," she provided, brushing hair away from her eyes.

"I'm not judging," Cleo assured her.

"Anyway, enough about me. Uhm… Let's see, ideas…" Granger frowned, gaze scanning the ground. "Hm. What about menstrual health? Something to- well, I suppose wizards have pain-reducing potions already…"

Her brow furrowed quite severely with the force of her effort. "Eh… Perhaps something similar to birth control? In Potion form?"

Cleo twisted her lips, pensive. "I suppose that would be easy enough - find a formulation and group of ingredients that would keep the levels of progesterone and estrogen high but… I don't know if something like that would impress Snape or not. He's not much for 'simple'."

"You're probably right," Granger conceded. "So, something a bit flashier. Any disorders that affect pregnant women only?"

"Preeclampsia," Cleo blurted out, automatic. Her own doubts caught up with her quickly, as she qualified, "A bit tricky, though."

The other girl clasped her hands together. "Tricky?"

"Muggles haven't cured it either," she explained. "So, it'd be an undertaking."

This took the girl aback. "Really? Do they know what causes it?"

"No." Cleo shook her head. "They just know what the signs are before eclampsia hits."

"Hence the 'pre' bit," Granger surmised. "So, if you were to develop a potion for this, you'd be combating something mysterious. Lots of testing involved, I imagine."

"Clinical trials would be more than difficult," she admitted, sighing. "I'd still need to have a Muggle medical background in order to be able to accurately diagnose any witch that could possibly _have_ it, so… this would be an incredibly long term project. Years. Decades, even."

"Well, I should think so," the girl replied, loosely folding her arms before her. "Developmental potion research very often is the work of years. I mean- just look at the Wolfsbane Potion. Twenty-four years it took, though perhaps the length of it was because it was independently funded - not to mention _secretive…_ "

"Comforting," Cleo intoned, rubbing the back of her neck, before a self-effacing laugh spilled from her lungs.

Granger's frown was anxious. "That's- that's not to say it isn't _possible_ ," she hurried to say. "I mean, just think about it: Professor Snape's gone out of his way to teach us _why_ potions work, instead of just having us copy recipes directly. Though, uhm… Did you ever have those essays he assigned, about primary, secondary, and tertiary ingredient trees?"

Cleo's expression screwed up, as if to say _of course I have_ , but there was no way for the girl to know that, was there? Tamping down her attitude, she forced a smile. "Yes, I did."

"Oh, good," the girl remarked, so unfazed that she must not have noticed, "But I mean, it's all about finding a good base, and then stemming new abilities or fixing the shortcomings of the primary ingredient, right? So, you know, if you were to begin making a potion of this nature, what do you suppose your primary ingredient might be?"

"Off the top of my head?" she questioned, pensive. Her next words flowed from her, stream of conscious: "Well… Preeclampsia's biggest indicator is high blood pressure… probably. It's where they _start_ , anyway. And if you start there, I suppose you have to…"

She bit her lip. Well, there was one answer she knew of, at the risk of sounding ridiculous.

"Aconite," she pronounced, looking Granger in the eye again.

The other girl's gaze was curious as she turned her head, considering. "Aconite?"

"It's used in Wolfsbane," Cleo pointed out. "And I don't believe it's for that whole 'poisoning the wolf' reason. Too nebulous and _romantic._ "

Granger shrugged. "Hard to say; I'm not sure exactly how that potion's formulation works out, even after studying it. Funny thing about aconite, though- Did you know it's got a heap of nicknames, including 'women's bane'?"

"I didn't."

"Wizards evidently ascribe to the ancient belief that women are more susceptible to the poison," she remarked, the corner of her mouth quirking.

Cleo pursed her lips. "Strange. Was there any real basis for this observation, or…?"

"There is a basis, but it's up for interpretation how 'real' that basis is," Granger said. "Those notions were founded on mythological principles. There's even an origin story for aconite that suggests that 'rock-flowers' were created from errant foam which came out of Cerberus' mouths as it was dragged from the underworld."

"As much as I would _really_ love to unpack that," Cleo stated, sounding genuinely regretful. "We're venturing a bit from the point."

"Oh- right, sorry-" The girl frowned.

"Don't be," Cleo assured her. "Really. It's interesting. Just-" She hesitated, brow furrowing before she shook her head. "I know Aconite has properties that lower blood pressure. There are Muggles that even use it in diluted doses as an alternative form of medication. But even outside the problem of clinical trials, I can't be certain that any secondary or tertiary ingredients could alter aconite's properties enough to be efficacious. I'm working off a guess, as well. High blood pressure is a strong _indicator_ , but it's not a cause. _That_ could be anything. It's like trying to chase a ghost."

Granger sighed. "Where does that leave you, then?"

Cleo tossed her head side to side, thoughtful, before she lifted her shoulders in an expression of nonchalance. "Where I hedge my bets and do a contraception potion."

"Do you suppose that will be enough? For Professor Snape, I mean?"

"No one appears to have done it, or attempted to," Cleo reasoned. "So I imagine it's at least _something_."

"How long have you got until you have to present it?" Granger asked.

At that, Cleo burst into laughter. "What time is it?"

Perplexed, the girl replied slowly, "Half three, maybe a bit later?"

"Three and a half hours, then."

"So." There was an uncertainty to her tone. "I mean, if you want, I could help you put a plan together? You know, _before_."

"You don't have class?"

There was a bit of pain in her expression as she said, "If it will enable you to join E.A.R.W.I.G., then I suppose it's worth missing some History of Magic."

Cleo squinted. "Earwig?"

The clangor of students passing by their spot - the noise of shuffling feet, loud conversation, and girlish titters - interrupted them momentarily. Granger's brows lowered as she looked on, impatience and distaste in her expression, clearly unwilling to wait for them to clear out before saying what she had to say.

"It's my new organization," Granger explained, voice raised and head held high. "The Equal Academic Representation in Wizarding Institutions Group."

Cleo, on the other hand, _did_ wait until the last student filed into the Charms classroom to reply. "That's cute, actually. But, uhm. Don't worry about bribing me. It's something I'd join anyway. Go to your class."

The girl gave her a strange look. "It's not a bribe." She seemed put-off by the implication. "It's just… People like you are exactly what my organization is for, isn't it? How could I call myself its leader if I didn't help you?"

"People like _us_ ," Cleo emphasized, pulling her book bag strap higher on her shoulder, "are equally understanding that other things take priority sometimes. You've made it clear how you feel about skiving off class. I'll be fine; I'll do my due diligence. You'll have your member."

Granger fretted. "Are you _sure?_ I really don't mind."

"More than sure," Cleo promised. "Really. You've been a huge help, Miss Granger."

"Hermione," the girl corrected her, calmly shifting a tuft of her hair behind her shoulder.

Her head sunk into a slight nod as she stepped away from the wall. "Cleo."

Hermione's answering smile was warm. "Good luck, Cleo."

The laugh she expressed was half hearted and nervous as she began to walk away, announcing over her shoulder. "Going to need it, Hermione."

••••••••••

Snape's office door was open when she arrived, but, from the voices emanating from inside, it seemed he was with someone else. Hesitating, and wondering if she should wait outside the classroom itself, Cleo's ears caught on a familiar, unpleasant voice.

"It was Urquhart's fault!" Malfoy was insisting, his voice raised near to hysteria. "Ask anyone there, and they'll tell you! _He_ attacked _me!_ "

"Do you think me a fool, Draco?" Snape replied, voice smooth. "Three fights in as many weeks? A dozen since school began? Each of them sending you to the Hospital Wing? You are barely standing even now."

"Please, sir, I _need_ the nights off."

"Do you." He sounded unconvinced.

" _Yes_ ," Malfoy insisted.

There was a silence, one Cleo recognized intimately. _Especially_ when the boy's hesitant voice broke through to say, "I _do_ , Severus! To-" He paused. "To do _homework!_ "

"Your hesitation suggests otherwise."

"It's my N.E.W.T. year!" The boy doubled down. "You can't expect me to do well, and then cut into my study time-"

"I rather think it's your frequent trips to the Hospital Wing which are 'cutting into your study time'," the professor echoed back, derisive.

Malfoy's voice cracked when he burst out with, "I've been feeling ill constantly, Severus! Every day, these horrid pains in my chest and- and sometimes I feel like I can't even _breathe-_!"

Snape's reply was deeply unsympathetic. "Perhaps you should have thought of that before causing a scene. Or _several_ of them, as the case may be. How is it you expect to procure anyone's good will with outlandish behavior like this?"

"I don't _care_ what anyone thinks!" the boy spat, breathing heavily. "I just can't have detention! _I can't!_ "

There was an audible scoff before the professor dismissed, "Yes, you have made your objection on that point patently clear."

"Then perhaps you could consider _listening_ to me!"

"I believe that is what I am presently doing."

"Could have fooled me," Malfoy sneered. "Considering your predisposition to be unrelentingly obstinate, Severus-!"

"Professor," he snapped. "You have taken quite enough liberties already."

" _Professor_ ," the boy corrected himself, sneering.

He must have been satisfied enough with that, since he continued, "If you are this adamant to evade detention, perhaps you should supply an acceptable _reason_."

Malfoy huffed a strangled laugh. "Oh, _now_ you care to know? Fascinating."

"Draco…" His tone was barely patient, edged with malice.

"Either help me or not!" Malfoy demanded, and Cleo could see the back of his blond head protruding through the open door. "I don't even know why I'm asking, since you're a heartless _traitor-_ "

"If you think I can be guilted, you are sorely mistaken," Snape declared, firm. "You will serve your detentions with grace, or further consequences-"

" _Grace?!_ " There was a harsh bang, as if Malfoy had kicked something. "Don't you dare threaten me-!"

"You are dismissed," the professor cut him off abruptly. "Send Miss Croft in on your way out."

Shit. Was he serious? Malfoy's form came careening through the office threshold, his glare pinpointing her with weaponized hatred. " _You_ ," he seethed, disdain written in every line of his face. However, in addition to his contempt, there were also signs of disarray which were not so familiar. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and she could see that he was even more pale than usual, a sheen of sweat laid across his forehead.

Still, she had no compassion to muster for the boy, especially when he continued speaking. "Eavesdropping, is it now, _Croft?_ Didn't your filthy mother teach you manners?"

It didn't seem wise to rile him up. "I wasn't-"

Snape's voice, and his physical presence at the door, interrupted. "I will not have my time _wasted_."

She stood aside, waiting for the boy to pass her. Incensed, Malfoy kept his eye trained on her as he moved. Just as he reached parallel with her, he jabbed his shoulder into her side, knocking her off balance and against the potions worktable. Then, before she could react, he was gone, the classroom door falling closed behind him.

It was pointless, but she couldn't help herself; she frowned at Snape, gesturing to the closed door behind her. "What was that?"

"A petulant child whose theatrics have grown tiresome," he replied, expression frozen in annoyance as he leaned against the door frame leading to his office.

"Why did you bring his attention to me like that?" she questioned, feeling rather irritated herself.

Snape eyed her, evidently not appreciating her tone. "I assumed you would prefer he not take up resources which were allotted to _you_. I do not have unlimited time to bandy about."

"I would prefer not to have someone _that_ unstable directing his energy and attention at me!"

He offered a disdainful sniff. "Intriguing sentiment from someone who has been drawing substantial attention of late."

"There's a distinct difference between me getting in trouble and me being in the crosshairs of some reactionary," Cleo argued, no-nonsense.

"It is not _trouble_ to which I am referring, though that could very well be where you end up."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "You can't seriously think I was part of that protest."

He raised an eyebrow. "I do recall your name being mentioned rather prominently."

"You weren't even there," she emphasized, scowling. "I was a symbol, nothing more. Same with Potter. Unless it's to be believed that I'm _actually_ the one, solitary person mistreated most by Dumbledore?" She could think of _fifty_ students that fit that description better than she.

Unfazed, he looked down his nose at her. "The point, which seems to have soared over your head, is that despite my not being present, I somehow managed to catch wind that _you_ were."

"Oh _Jesus_ ," she spat, disgusted. "Can you just act like a decent human being for once-"

"Miss Croft," he warned, eyes narrowing.

The implication which came after was clear as day; her mind couldn't help but amble to Trelawney. Snape was drawing a line here. She had to respect it.

Reigning herself in, Cleo ventured, "It makes me uncomfortable when you force me into a confrontation with the the son of a violent, convicted Neo-Nazi. I'm just asking you don't. Please."

Snape sighed through his nose, gaze drifting across the empty classroom before settling on her with a mild glare. "Very well," he relented, folding his arms. "I shall endeavor to direct Mister Malfoy's foul attitude elsewhere."

" _Thank_ you."

Snape fixed her with a look. "I imagine your purpose in being here is to say something a great deal more substantial."

It was difficult to shake the unease she felt at the previous encounter, but she forced herself to take a few further strides towards him before announcing: "So, after research, I've sort of realized that the Wizarding World is more than a bit behind when it comes to contraceptive methods, much less gynecological health. And although the current zeitgeist is a bit more than conservative in regards to birth control, I find it more than suitable to spend my time developing a contraceptive potion in order to-"

"I said 'substantial', not 'barely sufficient'," Snape interrupted her, harsh. "You expect me to believe a week of contemplation brought you to such paltry conclusions?"

"It's reasonable," she argued. "And within the realm of actually accomplishing, especially within the next two years."

His stare was disapproving. "'Reasonable' ideas ought to be left to those of below average intellect and potential. You, however, do not qualify."

She scowled. "I hardly call developing a new potion anywhere near below average-"

"By the time I was your age, I had already done so," Snape informed her. "If I am to invest my time in you, I expect _excellence_ , not diffidence."

"This isn't the bare minimum," she countered, vehement. "Wizards haven't even realized what stops pregnancy, and I could easily develop something that actually _works_ and-"

"Yes, you are correct about how _easy_ it would be," was his sneered remark. "So easy, in fact, that it could be accomplished in a mere handful of months. And then what will you do? Languish in your mediocre, _reasonable_ success?"

"Is anything short of a Wolfsbane ingenuity not worth it to you?" she caustically inquired.

The man considered her, arms folded, his answer branching off into a separate direction. "You do yourself a disservice to set such a low bar. To have settled for such a safe plan, you must have considered one more precarious."

"Infeasible," she corrected, displeased.

At that, his shrewd gaze focused in, as if he'd caught her out on a lie. Cleo could only endure it for a few seconds before she was scoffing.

"Infeasible means infeasible," she insisted. "I literally can't do it. Not while I'm at school."

"And why is that?" he prompted, a challenge.

"Because this isn't just a Wizarding World thing," she answered. "Muggles don't have this quite figured out, either."

"You are measuring yourself against those who do not possess the same tools which are available to you," Snape pointed out. "It is the privilege of wizards and witches to understand the unfathomable, to accomplish the _infeasible_. It is simply in our nature."

"Even if that were so, I'd need the training of a Healer to even begin doing _that._ "

"It is fortunate, then, that you will shortly be receiving just such an education."

Her expression contorted in disbelief. " _What?_ "

Snape's stance shifted as he told her, "You are, in fact, expected to report to St. Mungo's in two hours."

She walked toward him, head canted and confused. "How am I expected at St. Mungo's in two hours?"

"How?" he echoed ahead of an amused snort. "Your advisor arranged it."

"But you haven't even agreed to be my-"

"Not yet," he conceded, a gleam in his dark eyes. "As I said, I only advise those of _singular_ vision, who seek to accomplish that which others would deem impossible."

"I don't even know where I'd start," she confessed, emphatic.

"Have I taught you nothing?" Snape questioned with a glare. "You start where all potions originate: their base components."

"I can't get past the primary ingredient," she explained. "And I'm not even certain that it's correct in the first place-"

"Well, this certainly seems like a moment in which an advisor could _advise_ ," he retorted, mocking. "However, I appear to be missing crucial context."

It was stupid, but still completely taken aback by these turn of events, she murmured rather inanely, "Huh?"

Snape stared at her, incredulous. "Your _aspiration_ , you foolish girl! What is the potion's _purpose?_ "

"Oh, right, uh-" she stammered, returning to herself. Then, the words managed to fumble out, disjointed. "Preeclampsia… potion."

His lip curled. "The name is rather uninspired, but the idea less so. I understand there is no Muggle cure for this ailment, correct?"

"Nothing besides birth," she said softly.

"And so?" he prompted, waving a decisive hand. "What is the intent? To mitigate the symptoms, allow for the child to be born at full term?"

"Until I could possibly find a way to understand the disease itself, that's probably my best shot," she replied.

"What do you suppose could accomplish the task?"

It was easier to say with Hermione. Snape was a horse of another color all together. "It's going to sound-" she hesitated.

"Cease your dithering and speak."

Her head turned toward the wall, the break in eye contact some meager attempt at gathering courage. However, it wasn't getting easier, and with his stare boring into the side of her face, she confessed: "Aconite."

His chin lifted, eyebrows raising as he commented, "Intriguing choice."

The remark, in and of itself, was at least somewhat bolstering. She nodded, gaining steam as she continued, eyes still stubbornly directed to the wall: "It contains compounds that lower blood pressure. Even _Muggles_ have utilized it for alternative medicine. So I figure, since the hallmark sign of preeclampsia is high blood pressure, then an aconite based potion could possibly…"

"... diminish the effect of the condition," he finished for her. "Have you any idea which part of the plant should be utilized for this purpose?"

Her head shook. "I- I hadn't gotten that far."

"I have limited experience with aconite, outside of its uses in Wolfsbane and select poisons," Snape admitted, thoughtful. "Its medicinal properties are relatively unknown in this continent."

"So, I need to do an aconite study," Cleo concluded, her voice meandering away shortly after she'd spoken.

"It is still a notoriously dangerous plant to work with, you realize."

"I'm well aware," she remarked, turning her head to frown at him.

His fingers flexed, a slight gesture of capitulation. "I am merely verifying that you know what you are getting into."

"I don't," she admitted. "But this is all I have."

"Allow me to enlighten you, then," Snape began, his gaze direct. "This idea you've posed, of researching aconite? It has merit. But a single good idea is not what will determine your success. It is merely the starting point, after which you will have to put in considerable _work_ to prove to anyone your talents are worth sponsoring."

"I _know_ ," she pressed, crestfallen. "I know you think I'm an imbecile, but I'm-"

"If I thought you were an imbecile, I would say so," he cut through her words, irked. "What I am presently doing is issuing a forewarning. I expect you to be very clear on the terms of my advisory role."

"I can work," she promised. "Really."

At that, he pivoted away from her, re-entering his office and taking up a bit of parchment which was laid on his desk. "Then your labor begins here," he prompted, proffering her the slip.

It took a moment for her to finally enter the room, stroll up to him, and take the parchment from his hand. "And this…?"

"An official document, outlining your provisional apprenticeship to Healer Rutherford Poke," he explained, succinct. "You need only sign it to accept."

A soft breath heaved out of her, both expressing some barely acknowledged excitement and a disbelief she hadn't broken through. "Do you have a quill?"

With a careless flick of his fingers, a quill obediently soared into his open hand, but, as she moved to take hold of it, he did not release it into her grasp. Instead, he fitted her with a level stare. "Make no mistake, I will not allow you a moment's rest in pursuit of this goal you have chosen," he warned. "If you do not feel up to the task, now is the time to state it."

"I can do it," she reiterated.

An eyebrow of his twitched upward, head tilting minutely. "I expect you to remember that you said so when you encounter opposition."

"I will," she vowed. "It wouldn't be the first time."

His eyes narrowed. "You will need to muster more conviction than that to convince me you will not simply abandon this venture whenever it suits you."

"I'm _not_ going to give up!" she said, more confident that time. "I can do it."

He gave her a short hum of acknowledgement, letting go of the quill. She brought it and the slip to the edge of his desk, signing her name with a flourish, before passing the quill back to him.

"You will take that parchment with you when you go to St. Mungo's."

"To… Healer Rutherford Poke," she checked.

"Indeed."

"And…" she paused before clearing her throat. "And what about my transportation there?"

"The Headmaster has arranged a portkey," he informed her. His gesture toward the only other object atop his desk, which appeared to be a small, splintered wooden smoking pipe, indicated that it was already in the room. "When it is time to leave, it will activate."

"I'll come here to use it, I suppose?"

"Precisely," Snape confirmed. "It will remain in this office during your Hogwarts hours, and your mentor at the hospital will keep it while you are there."

"Okay," she breathed, bracing herself. "That… Yeah. That sounds good."

"I expect a full report of your hospital expedition by six o'clock tomorrow," he said, rounding his desk to resume his seat there. "And too, twelve inches on the known uses, risk factors, and cultivation of aconite."

 _Expedition_ was a good word for it, daunting and impossible as it seemed. The foot of paperwork, too. "Anything else?"

"Cancel any plans for Sunday," he said in a tone that brooked no objection. "You will be assigned several duties to occupy your time."

"Like a workhorse," she observed, smiling for the first time. "No problem."

Leaning against the arm of his chair, his gaze flicked from her to the door. "Now, I suggest you make preparations for your interview."

Interview. Fun. Her body rose as she lifted herself on her toes for a moment, before falling back on her heels. Her words were expelled on an exhale. "Yes, sir."

She shifted and carefully tucked the slip into her pocket, but not without giving it another cursory look over. It was hard to believe the bloody thing was even _real_ , but all the same - it was right there, emblazoned in ink. _By recommendation from Professor Severus T. Snape, Potion Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and by decree of the Ministry of Magic Healing and Recovery Management Office, it is my privilege as Overseer of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries to extend to you a provisional healer's apprenticeship..._

Her eyes only glanced up again once she reached the door. However, she stopped just at the threshold, suspending her hand on the door frame. Her head bobbed down once before she looked over her shoulder. "Professor?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "Yes?"

She swallowed, fingers tightening their hold on the frame. "Thank you."

He did not reply, though, up until she stepped out of the room, his gaze never left her.

••••••••••

When Healer Rutherford Poke regarded her, it was over the thick frames of his glasses. It was attached to a chain that floated just above his shoulder, keeping them propped up against the small length of his nose. His fingers released the entry forms she'd filled out earlier onto the surface of his desk, and when he leaned back in his chair, the chain tugged itself, lowering his glasses carefully down over his chest.

"Professor Snape mentioned you had experience in Muggle medicine," he prompted, his fingers scraping over the side of his unshaven face.

Cleo's head dipped into a nod. "I'm certified in First Aid procedures and I have worked in a Muggle hospital before," she embellished. She'd _volunteered_ as a candy striper for a couple weeks when she was fifteen, but…

"And your schooling?"

"Currently doing my N.E.W.T.s in Potions, Charms, and Herbology."

He peered at her. "No Transfiguration?"

"Oh, uhm - no. Is that required?"

His frown was conciliatory and thoughtful, his head bouncing from side to side as he considered her question. "Not necessarily. Future applicants tend to prefer to play it safe by remaining well rounded. It really does depend upon your N.E.W.T. scores, in the end."

Cleo glanced down at her hands before leaning forward, a bit troubled. "Well, should I possibly-"

The man lifted a hand to stop her. "Please relax, Miss Croft. I've already taken you aboard. You needn't worry on that account. I'm merely assessing."

"Oh, well. Uhm-"

He picked up rather well from her gaffe, seeming unperturbed by her anxiety. "I imagine you're looking to take up further education in healing after you graduate?"

"Ah- yes."

"In what position?"

"Healer."

Healer Poke's glasses hovered over his eyes again as he moved the top portion of the stack of papers aside to peer at something - presumably, her transcripts. He appeared to skim over whatever was on that page, his glasses delicately perching themselves on his chest again as he looked up, pronouncing a solid, neutral: "Good."

She wasn't certain what he meant by _that_. He didn't allow much time for interpretation either, as he confronted her with an observation: "I must admit, this is rather atypical; most often, applicants around your age are graduates."

Cleo's head dipped into a nod as she glanced down in her lap. "After my O.W.L.s, I had to take time off."

"Weren't sure you wanted to move forward with your N.E.W.T.s?"

She cleared her throat nervously, her eyes still directed at her lap. "No, I had uhm-" Cleo swallowed. "I took time off to start a family."

She heard the plastic frames of his glasses clink against the metal chain as they signaled his perusal of her paperwork again.

"Ah, hadn't noticed you claimed a dependent," he remarked, strikingly casual.

Cleo looked up; his expression, for what it was worth, was genial.

"That will change the matter of hours, I think," he remarked. "We prefer to accommodate for working parents."

"That's kind of you but-" Cleo hesitated. "I have help at the moment. My son is looked after. You don't have to shorten my hours."

"You're certain?" he probed.

"Absolutely," she urged. "You can have me as much as you need throughout the week."

The same loud _scritching_ sound reverberated about the room as he leaned back in his chair, nails raking the back of his neck. "As it stands, this is sort of a quasi-apprenticeship. We don't usually organize these for current Hogwarts students, not unless their marks show promise and come with recommendation. These apprenticeship positions are generally reserved for graduates who wish to begin their training in healing or mediwizardry with earnest. Normally, you'd be working full time. However, as it is, we'll be balancing your mentorship here while you finish out your schooling, and contingent upon your graduation, your current hours will transfer to a full-time apprenticeship here. It gives you a head start, so to speak."

"That's really great," Cleo enthused, smiling.

"I should preface," Healer Poke broached, leaning forward, hands interlinking atop his desk. "Apprentice or not, I need to remind you that this is a place of _healing_. You may not be a patient's primary, but you are assisting in their recovery. That means you're _here_. All of you. School stays at school; home stays at home. While you are here, all of you is _here_. Is that understood?"

Cleo's head shifted in a series of confident, sincere nods.

"Misconduct, regardless of your status as a student, will be dealt with under full scrutiny of the Ministry's Healing and Recovery disciplinary board. So I'd advise that you familiarize yourself with the Code of Conduct for this hospital."

"Yes sir."

"Very well," he intoned, leaning over to slip one of the five quills situated in the inkwell at the corner of his desk. He pulled some sort of form off of one of the stacks to his left and began to write.

Cleo took in a revitalizing breath. This was actually happening. _God._

"Professor Snape spoke highly of your potion-making abilities," Healer Poke dropped, offhand, as he leaned over to re-ink his quill.

Cleo's brow furrowed. "He did?"

A soft chuckle rumbled from him. "Not in those words. But he isn't the kind of man to throw around the word 'decent' unless he means it."

Cleo felt a warmth settle on her shoulders; she sat up in her chair.

"What recommendations we get are usually fielded by Professors McGonagall and Flitwick," the man remarked, blowing over the ink on the page. His eyes settled on her, deliberate. "Do you know how many Professor Snape has recommended over the entirety of his career?"

"No, sir."

"Three," Healer Poke answered, inclining his head toward her. "Including you."

 _That_ was a hint. _I expect a lot._ Okay.

"I promise I'm worth his recommendation."

His answer was merely a soft hum, one whose implication sounded very clear in her ears ( _we'll see about that_ ), eyes going to the form in his hand. When his once over finished, he leaned forward and passed it her way.

"You'll be assigned to the Potions and Plant Poisoning ward," he told her. "And you'll give this to your mentor."

"My mentor?" she questioned, glancing down to the piece of paper in her hand. _Augustus Pye_. "Ah, I thought I was apprenticed under you-"

"As Overseer of St. Mungo's, _all_ trainees are apprenticed under me," he elaborated. "You are, in effect, my responsibility. However, you will be instructed by a Junior Healer. He will be the one you report to, who approves your hours, who will oversee your medical education, et cetera."

"Right, okay," she agreed, nodding. "Sounds great."

He waved a hand to dismiss her and she rose from her seat, muttering another ardent _thank you_ as she gathered her things.

"Talk to Pye about getting yourself fitted for some robes," he mentioned, before his lips twisted. "How tall are you?"

"Ah-" Cleo halted as she stammered, glancing down the length of her body before answering. "Six foot-" She caught herself, brow furrowing. "I mean, one eighty three centimeters."

He made a face at her blunder, but didn't comment on it. "You can borrow one of the men's today until we can get a Minder to fit one of the women's for you."

It turned out that Healer Pye was handy with a tailoring spell. Or, _Junior_ Healer Pye, he'd made a point to correct her. But, alongside a laugh, he'd mentioned he didn't mind the promotion much.

He could get used to hearing it.

Pye found her paperwork exceedingly amusing as well. "Severus Snape, huh?"

Cleo had been smoothing out her new lime-green robes. "Yes. My advisor."

The man whistled. "Managed that, did you?"

"I did," she answered, her smile meek.

"You must be tough."

She wouldn't describe herself as that at _all_. Not after Professor Snape practically _cajoled_ her into it. "You must know something about it."

"Got me," Healer Pye replied, lifting his hands. "Must be ten years ago, now, when I was in your shoes? I owe him a lot, if I'm honest."

So, this was the last person Snape advised… It felt odd to be part of what was essentially an exclusive club. And too, she was surprised to realize she was already benefiting from what was good thinking on Healer Poke's part - setting things up like this. It was thoughtful in a way she hadn't expected. She might as well take advantage. "Got any advice?"

"Well," the man sighed, his eyes going to the ceiling in thought. "I'd give up on any hope of a social life, for one. Whatever project Snape's got you working on, you'd best be dedicating whatever free time you _got_ to it. Nothing else matters."

Daunting. Cleo forced a smile. "Okay."

"Oh and his essays might not seem like they're top priority, but they _are_. If you think you can skirt by a meeting without showing up prepared, Merlin help you. Just make sure you have everything settled."

"Right," she breathed.

He must have caught on to her unease, because in a moment he was looking at her, supplying a reassuring: "Though, hey - nothing has to be _perfect_ , you know? Don't be afraid to go to him with questions. He might not seem it, but he actually _likes_ answering them. It's probably the most light hearted I ever saw him, when he was helping me work a problem. If that's even the right term to use."

"Suitable enough," Cleo replied, charitable.

"But hey, enough about school," Healer Pye transitioned. "Bet you're excited for your first day, huh?"

"I really am," she told him. "Scared out of my mind, but I'm really excited."

"Don't worry too much. We're on the night shift so things tend to be pretty quiet. At any rate, most of the HICs have gone home, and the mix queue is usually empty until morning."

Cleo frowned. "HICs?"

"Hah- sorry." Pye smiled, self-deprecating. "Healers-in-Charge. They're senior staff assigned to a ward. Juniors and trainees like me and you are their assistants."

"What happens if there's an emergency during the night?"

"Well, Healers have on-call portkeys for a reason, right?"

Cleo grinned as she looked down, slightly embarrassed. "Yes, right."

"Honestly, I wasn't planning to work you much tonight anyway. Thought I'd introduce you to some of the Department Heads who are around, get you oriented in the potion pit, and set you on something simple." His arm encompassed her shoulder with a jovial pat as he urged her into a stroll down the hall. "Sound good?"

"Yep," she chirped, swallowing back her trepidation. "Let's do it."

For the next hour, she found herself shuffled around the building, accompanied by Pye's running commentary. Starting at the very top floor where she'd spoken with Healer Poke, they traversed a hallway which housed a large collection of shop stalls ("They call it Green Row since everyone in the hospital eats here.") and administrative offices ("The loo off the boardroom is _loads_ nicer than the one in the staffroom.")

The fourth floor's Head of Spell Damage was in attendance, a kindly old Healer by the name of Rina Thickett, and they passed by a few wards involving transfigurative reversal, memory services, and wound relief ("Everyone who works this floor is either a saint or a nutter, honestly."). On the third floor was Potions and Plant Poisonings ("The _best_ department, obviously!") where Pye pointed out a few of the areas they would be frequenting during her time there. The second floor smelled foul, a reddish haze hanging around the corridor ("I don't envy the custodian who has to clean up Magical Bugs and Diseases…"). First floor involved Creature Induced Injuries, and they said hello to the Minder-In-Charge who was tending to the Acid and Flame Relief Ward ("Let's shove off quick before Smethwyck spots me.").

When they reached the ground floor, her mentor paused a moment at the foot of the stairs. "All that's left is Reception, Crisis, and Artefacts, but how are you holding up?"

Cleo glanced at the sparse and near-empty waiting room. "Good."

"Oh- I ought to mention as well, you don't have to always take the stairway." Healer Pye gestured toward a set of three fireplaces lining the wall behind the Welcome Witch. "There's Floo access to every floor. Our network's separate from the normal one, though, so you won't be able to go anywhere else that way."

"Convenient," Cleo commented. "Though, maybe the cardio's better for me."

"It's mostly for the departments with debilitated patients," he explained, speaking with his hands. "I can only assume it was a nightmare trying to float them up the stairway. But it's handy for brewing deadlines too."

"Good to know," Cleo remarked, glancing to the row of Floos.

" _Well_ , that's an hour killed, yeah?" he joked. "I'll set you free in a couple more. Think you might need some Wideye?"

She chuckled softly. "Probably, if I'm honest."

The man nodded. "Worry not, I won't subject you to the night shift often," he promised. "And I'll send you off at a reasonable hour. You have my word."

"I appreciate that," Cleo confessed, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her robes. "Snape has me on for work on Sunday. I think I'll have most of Saturday to work on my first assignment, too." Not to mention _homework._

Healer Pye clapped his hand on her shoulder, another show of solidarity. "Seems like you'll be needing that Wideye to _survive_ -"

His words were cut short by the sound of the nearby door swooshing open, cold night air seeping in and curling at their legs. The uneven clatter of heels followed shortly after, and Cleo watched as the slender form of a woman materialized from thin air, the soft shimmer of her disillusionment charm receding from her. Making her way up to the front desk, attired in a light, floral-patterned dress, she kept something carefully afloat beside her.

Healer Pye's demeanor shifted; Cleo had witnessed that stance before, evident on her father's normally serene countenance. Before she could take in what was happening, he was already making his way across the space, leaving her standing alone.

His voice carried with spectacular ease, a practiced calm that was as soothing as it was businesslike. "Can I help you?"

"Are you a Healer?" Cleo could hear the woman speak, clear and unperturbed, as she shadowed the two. "This girl requires immediate attention… I wasn't sure exactly what to do- I found her while I was walking home; she was laying face down in the Bottlebrush town square and would not respond when I tried to rouse her."

"Could you lower her to the ground for me please?" He rounded to the woman's other side, pulling his wand from an inside pocket stitched into his robes. His wandwork was masterful and fluid, a conjured gurney cushioning the girl as she was gently lowered out of weightlessness. In a second, his gaze flashed to Cleo, and he gestured for her. "Cleo, come join me, if you will?"

So much for a quiet night.

But this was what she had been _waiting_ for, wasn't it?

She expelled all apprehension and quickly strode to his side. His directions were prompt. "Keep this pulled down for me."

She grasped the piece of shirt he was removing from the girl's shoulder, and it was there that Cleo finally had the chance to look at her: The girl couldn't have been older than seventeen. And needing "immediate attention" was _right_. Bruises nestled tight against her incredibly emaciated frame, blooming from the torn crevices of her clothes. This was completely overshadowed, however, by the large slice that acted as a schism between her shoulder and torso, winding down beneath her shirt, its only evidence the splotches of blood that sullied the fabric. It wasn't just a cut, either - a swath of her flesh had been completely torn from her body, leaving the sinew exposed underneath. Cleo could clearly see the striations that made up her skeletal muscle, flexing and oozing with every subdued breath she made in her unconscious state.

A voice tore her attention away from the display. Healer Pye had paused in the midst of his diagnostic spells. "Do you know how to take a pulse?"

Cleo blinked. Then, a nod overtook her head, and she bent over the side of the girl's body, pressing her fingers up against the girl's carotid as she pulled a _Tempus_ up with her wand.

She counted the beats to the minute. It wasn't until she looked at Healer Pye again when she finished that he finally spoke. "Meant a spell," he pointed out. "But creative thinking, anyway."

Cleo's fingers slipped from the girl's neck. "Right."

"I'll teach you it later," he offered before his gaze became expectant. "Well?"

"BPM is low," she answered. "I counted forty five."

It was his turn to look at her oddly, at least until she elaborated. "Oh, it's-" she shook her head. "Her heart rate is low. It's there, but it's shallow."

He nodded, the motion distracted as he focused his attention on the patient. He held his wand at an angle, poised against her sternum, as colorful ribbons of magic spread out across her chest and shoulder, encompassing the wound in a lighted cocoon.

"Pretty serious splinch," he observed, before he addressed the woman hovering above them. "And you're a bystander?"

"Yes," she confirmed, holding her hands in front of her in a pose that might have looked dainty had her dress not been covered in an alarming amount of blood. "Theresa Rochford."

"And you're unacquainted with this young woman?"

"I have never seen her before, no."

Cleo made a careful adjustment over the body, her hands going to dig into the unconscious girl's pockets. She arose empty-handed. "Nothing."

"No wand, even?"

Cleo shook her head.

Healer Pye addressed Theresa again: "When you found her, did she have a wand on her?"

"I'm not certain," the woman answered with a slight frown. "I was engaged with transporting her here; I did not think to look."

"Alright," Healer Pye murmured, pocketing his wand. "Cleo, I misaligned the gurney, but we shouldn't adjust her much. She needs to stay still. I'll float her, but you need to keep her head supported. Understood?"

Cleo's agreement was her movement as she pushed past Theresa, kneeling just above the girl's crown, bending down to cradle the back of her head in both her palms.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

Healer Pye stood back, a soft _Wingardium Leviosa_ leaving him. Cleo followed the slow, gentle rhythm of the lift with her hands, keeping the girl's head supported and still.

"Good," he complimented. "Move to the side, and keep up with me. It'll only be down the hall. You're doing great."

He adjusted his position behind the gurney, wand raised. Another muted spell passed his lips, and the two of them began to move, their pace brisk. Cleo's fingers flexed across her skull and strands of the girl's blue and black hair fell, matted, across her wrists as they guided her to the Crisis Ward.


	9. 3rd of November

This was a bit of a struggle in between new employment, moving apartments, and a trip to LA! But it is finally here. We hope you enjoy. :)

For chapter images and faster updates, check us out on AO3!

Coming Soon - Chapter 10: Quality

••••••••••

On the morning of the third of November, there was an unexpected addition to their extra credit Transfiguration seminar.

"This is Ren Normandy," Professor McGonagall was saying. "For those of you in N.E.W.T. Defense Against the Dark Arts, you may have had cause to meet her already. She has graciously agreed to assist our understanding of a particular transfigurative syndrome."

Harry had occasionally seen Ren around, never looking the same way twice, but he'd never seen Ren like _this_. McGonagall's use of 'her' was not unfounded; though Ren was adorned with the normal strange accoutrements - pure white butterfly wings sprouting from her biceps, curly purple hair, and brownish skin dotted with flecks of shimmering gold - she was also possessed of unfamiliar, highly feminine features. Her rounded shoulders, her long and delicate legs, and her hips jutting at a saucy angle beneath her slim, frilled dress painted a very different picture of Ren than Harry was used to, despite knowing how changeable she was.

Ren lifted a hand in a dainty wave, her divergently-colored eyes surveying the gathered students. "Good to meet you- or nice to see you again," she remarked with casual friendliness. "Take your pick."

Seamus's hand shot in the air at once. "Aren't you a man? Y'know... Normally?" he asked without a shred of tact, prompting a chorus of whispers to erupt throughout the class.

McGonagall shot a stern look toward them all, silencing them, but Ren merely shrugged in response. "Sometimes," she answered; even her voice flowed differently. "And sometimes not."

"I'll thank you to ask _respectful_ questions, with _appropriate intent,_ Mister Finnegan," the professor demanded. "And that applies to all of you."

Ren waved a hand, tucking a few curls behind her ears. "It's no problem; I'm not easily offended, believe me!" Her laugh was hearty. "But maybe leave the more _scandalous_ inquiries for after class, hm?"

The next raised hand was one he recognized: Cho Chang's. Harry hadn't spoken to her for a long while, the awkwardness between them driven further by the fact she'd moved on to dating Michael Corner. It was strange, he thought, that she had fallen so quickly from his notice, considering the frequency with which she occupied his mind only a year ago.

Cho's wording was reluctant; she clearly wanted to frame her question with more decency than Seamus had. "Uhm, does… Well," she hesitated and bit her lip. "How does… Professor Tenenbaum feel about… that?"

The woman before them smirked. "Hm… annoyed, probably?" she flippantly replied. "She hates to be upstaged, you understand."

The students let out a collective laugh, some enthused, others nervous. Cho piped up again, a little more confident. "So, she's alright with…?" She left this sentence hanging.

"With me?" Ren prompted with her eyebrows raised. "'Course she is. But, you know, I don't hold it against her."

"That's really nice of-"

"Me?" Ren cut in, head slanted. "Merlin, don't I know it. I'm a _saint,_ aren't I?"

Cho sat back in her seat, letting loose a small, troubled sigh. Her boyfriend, seated beside her, rose up with his hand raised at the elbow and asked: "Which do you like being better? Boy or girl?"

"Why pick favorites?" the woman remarked. "The way I see it, there's plenty of good things about both. Or neither!"

The class as a whole wasn't sure what to make of that answer. Michael sank back into his seat, brow furrowed. Harry was just as confused as everyone else, but McGonagall saw fit to instruct, "If any of you are uncertain how to address Miss Normandy-"

"Missus, rather," Ren smoothly corrected her, smiling.

"Ah- yes, my mistake. Force of habit," the professor shook her head as if to clear it. "At any rate, if there is any confusion, you need only ask Ren her current preference."

The woman offered up a little cross-fingered salute. "I don't bite. Promise!"

There was a charged curiosity in the room, the quiet amassing in small eddies between the rows of students as Professor McGonagall organized her teaching materials. Perching her reading glasses atop her nose, she consulted a short length of parchment before querying the class: "Are any of you familiar with what a Mutaeternum is?"

Of course, Hermione had her hand up, that prim and unwavering palm so ubiquitous that the professor's eyes seemed to pass over it entirely, seeking out another. To everyone's surprise, a hand did go up; at the opposite end of the room, Rhys Urquhart answered when called upon, his words calm and measured. "A Mutaeternum is a metamorphmagus who is unable to alter their own body, but instead suffers random and uncontrollable shifts in appearance."

Harry surveyed the boy's stoic profile. Since the incident in the Entrance Hall, he'd been laying low in his classes, studious and quiet. A stark contrast to the brutal punishment Harry had seen him inflict on Malfoy.

"Correct," McGonagall approved. "Five points to Slytherin. And, are you aware of the three core symptoms of this highly rare magical syndrome?"

The Slytherin shook his head. "No, ma'am." His politeness was worrying in a way that Harry couldn't place.

The hazardous moment passed, gone apparently unnoticed by all. The professor, with an air of resignation, next called on Hermione.

"The primary indicators of a Mutaeternum are auto-involuntary transformation, acute magical fatigue, and corporeal dissonance," she rattled off, enthused.

McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "Thorough, Miss Granger," she intoned, the compliment a touch dry. "However, your classmates will require layman's terms for their notes."

"Right, ehm-" Harry was close enough to see her cheeks turn a little pink. "Their bodies change on their own, they um… have trouble with chronic tiredness and unreliable access to their magic, and their bodies never… settle? Their form is always in flux."

"It's most drastic while I sleep," Ren chimed in. "I once grew a full set of walrus tusks overnight, so large Bridge couldn't even fit on the bed…"

McGonagall explained, "Mutaeternums fluctuate much more rapidly while unconscious; the magical expenditure of the constant change they endure is recuperated during waking hours, unlike wizards without the syndrome."

"Sleep is an elusive beast," Ren lamented, hamming up her tale of woe. "I have hunted her for many years, but she still belongs only to the wilds."

The next question was spoken timidly by Susan Bones. "Did anyone… um, tease you? When you were in school?"

Ren chuckled. "Of course! Though, they were always likely to get a kick in the teeth from Bridge." She waved an excited hand. "I once saw her clock a grown man so hard with her fake leg that it actually cracked clean in half-!"

"Who?!" Lavender excitedly blurted out without raising her hand. "Was it a teacher?!"

"Well…" Ren began, her tone altogether sly.

However, Professor McGonagall stopped that line of thought in its tracks. "That is not a discussion for the classroom," she declared before aiming a look at Ren herself. "Nor is it a topic one might consider _professional_ in any context."

Neither Ren nor Lavender appeared particularly phased by this admonishment, instead exchanging conspiratorial looks. Normally, Harry might have indulged his curiosity as well, but he felt too uneasy to engage with the amused whispers that had erupted around him.

"Any other questions?" the professor prompted the room. "Relevant ones, Mister Ishida."

The seventh-year Hufflepuff retracted his hand, rolling his eyes and slumping back in his chair.

Megan Jones's hand fluttered in the air, the action both dainty and eager. "When did this start happening?" she asked, tilting her head. "How old were you?"

" _Funny_ story about that," Ren commented, eyebrows raised. "I was actually born with two heads on! My parents thought they'd had conjoined twins!"

Hannah Abbott made the hushed inquiry, "What are _conjoined_ twins?"

At the same moment, Pansy Parkinson exclaimed, in horror-stricken tones, "You had _two heads?! Gross!_ "

The whispers struck up again around the room, this time of a more urgent nature, barely quelled by McGonagall's displeased stare. She reigned in the students' attention with the sharp proclamation, "That manner of language is unacceptable. Ten points from Slytherin, Miss Parkinson."

The girl folded her arms, expression foul as she muttered, "What? It's _weird_."

McGonagall's tone was crisp as she lectured, "It is common for this condition to begin at birth, though Ren's experience is, perhaps, more dramatic than most. As such, I _expect_ you to comport yourselves with decency in this matter."

Despite the reprimand, Ren seemed far from being affected by Pansy's words. Her smile was positively serene as she tacked on, "Honestly, I only wish I could have seen the doctor's face when that head disappeared overnight."

"Doctor?" Cho's voice floated to the front again, gentle. "Not Healer?"

"Mhm! My parents were of the non-magical variety, _bless_."

"Wait but," Cho continued, flabbergasted. "How did the Muggles not…?"

"Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, I imagine," Ren shrugged. "Mum just mentioned that none of the doctors remembered anything about it when she went back for checkups."

The next question came from Hermione. "Were you able to go to primary school?"

"Nope!" the woman replied, popping the "P". "Couldn't even leave my house, really."

This seemed to baffle Hermione. "Well- aren't there any magical remedies? Any treatments to help manage the condition?"

Professor McGonagall fielded that particular question. "Not much is known about this particular ailment, partially because it is so rare. There have only been two cases in the whole of Britain in the last hundred years."

At that, one of the seventh year Slytherins, Raegan Stroud, spoke up. "Gee, so you're a real freak of nature, huh?"

Ren raised her eyebrows, amused. "Oh! I love nature! Did I ever tell you all the story about how I once grew mushrooms on my head? Enraged some Moss Folk in Norway, but I managed to convince them I was a forest sprite-"

"Any further comments like that," McGonagall warned, her shrewd gaze fixed on the Slytherins in the room "and I will be reporting your behavior to the Headmaster. Is that understood?"

During the protracted silence, Harry glanced over, the accused students either sulking or glaring. Even Urquhart, whose expression had been fairly neutral throughout, was now wearing a look of contempt. "Yes. We _understand_ ," he answered in Raegan's stead, his voice controlled.

The professor pursed her lips, clearly grown weary of interruptions. "Now, can anyone tell me how someone with this condition differs from, say, Animagus abilities, or someone who has performed a self-transfiguration? Padma?"

"Animagi have a base form, which is then altered to a secondary state, and they can switch at-will between the two. And… Mutataeternums have no control of their body states?" the girl answered.

"Yes, that is true; five points to Ravenclaw. But it is perhaps more accurate to say that they have no body states at all. It is difficult to discern if Mutataeternums have a natural body state, since they possess no stable traits with which to define them…"

As the lecture continued, Harry looked to Ren for a reaction. However, there wasn't much to see; her stance was relaxed, lounging with one elbow on the lectern. Up to now, he'd always chalked up Ren's strange appearance to be another 'magical thing' that he'd spent so many years gawking at, some quirk of Wizarding fashion that he hadn't caught on to. Now that he knew the unpleasant particulars, Ren's plight seemed… terribly sad.

After the students had been dismissed, Harry extracted himself from his friends to approach the front of the room, heading for Ren herself. A few other students were chatting with her, causing Harry to awkwardly dither on the outskirts as he waited for an opening. When the others dispersed, he greeted her with a stiff, "Hey."

"Hey Harry," she returned, easygoing.

"Um…" Harry blew out a puff of air, trying to collect his thoughts.

"Looking to hear the rousing tale of Bridge's broken leg?"

"Oh, er… no, sorry," he admitted, not wanting to offend. "I'm sure it's a great story and all-"

"How about this class, eh? Best you've ever had, I'd wager!" Ren chuckled, a mischievous tilt to her lips. "I do tend to have that effect."

His returning smile was tinged with gloom. "Sure," he conceded. "You're great. But erm, can I… can I ask you a question?"

She waved a hand. "Ask away!"

"How…?" He cringed, rephrasing in his head. Something easier to manage first. "How's Professor Tenenbaum doing?"

Ren's face lit up. "Bridge's recovery is going _swimmingly,_ I'm happy to report," she said. "Just a little snag with her condition, is all."

Harry frowned. "Her condition?"

"Ah," the woman before him ran a hand through her aubergine-colored hair. "Just a silly little thing she ran into while she was investigating some old ruins in Ukraine."

"Was there an accident?" he questioned, his mind conjuring the image of her in her wheelchair. "Some kind of… magical creature?"

"Oh no, nothing like that," Ren commented, waving a hand again. "She's just been sick, is all. But I reckon Snape will have it sorted before long."

That set off a small alarm in Harry's mind. "What's _he_ got to do with it?"

"Been supplying her with potions, to keep her strength up," she explained, reaching up to play with one of the curls on her shoulder. "It's thanks to him she'll be returning to teach Defense next week."

Harry had wondered why she was so long absent from her own classes; it was hard to imagine a tough-as-nails spitfire like Professor Tenenbaum needing time to recover.

"You've been doing alright, though," Harry commented in an attempt to be generous. Ren's command of a classroom was virtually nonexistent, and she mainly let everyone do whatever they wanted while she told absurd stories to the portion of the class who cared to listen.

Ren grinned. "While I'm glad you think so, I don't think teaching is really my calling."

"If you don't mind my asking, what _is_ your calling?"

The laugh that bubbled out of the woman was full of mirth. " _Great_ question," she complimented him. "I'd like to know the answer myself, though I think it's as simple as 'anything I've not got bored of yet'."

At that, his mind returned to the original curiosities which had propelled him to her to begin with. "Right… D'you change jobs a lot?"

"No, no, I just don't have one," Ren clarified, smirking. "I prefer to exist as a leech on the backside of society."

Harry felt certain that was meant as a joke, but he couldn't quite find the humor in it. "It, er… It must be hard, yeah? To live with… a condition like this?"

Ren's gaze drifted upward as she considered this. "Well, I don't really think of it like a _condition,_ " she remarked. "I've just always been like this. You get used to it."

 _Do you?_ Harry thought, agitated. If it were him, he wasn't sure he could deal with something like that. "But isn't it… I don't know. Painful?"

The woman before him laid a hand on his shoulder, her next words quite gentle. "There's no cause for you to worry, Harry. It's not painful, just occasionally inconvenient." Then, she laughed. "And I always like a good challenge anyway!"

Harry grimaced, still troubled. There was another question burning in his throat, the crux of all his distress, but he worried it would be rude to ask it. Or perhaps, more accurately, he worried that he wouldn't find the sort of answer he needed.

He shifted in place, his question worming its way into the light of day. "How do you… know who you are?" he asked, forthright and earnest. "How do you know, when everything's just… changing around you all the time?"

Ren took a moment to survey him, her brow creasing with concern. "I suppose it's something I had to figure out on my own," she divulged, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "I learned to take each day as a new adventure, to be what I wanted to be in spite of circumstances. Sometimes I'm the clown with a lizard tail, sometimes I'm the Loch Ness monster's cousin, sometimes I'm the bearded lady." She shrugged, offering him a small smile. "I'm content to let tomorrow bring whatever it will."

That was… Of course, it made _sense_ for Ren to think the way she did. But there was something achingly unsatisfying about that answer that Harry couldn't quite pinpoint. Slowly, he leaned away from her reach, letting Ren's arm fall away from his shoulder and back at her own side. "Right, yeah," Harry murmured, distant. "I'm- er, it's- it's good to know that you have a good attitude about it all."

"Exactly!" she chirped, clapping her hands together. "So, nothing to worry yourself over, hm?"

"Yeah," he said again, turning to leave the room. _Nothing to worry about at all._

••••••••••

"S'your move, Harry," Ron remarked with a yawn.

"I know that," he groused, brow furrowed. "How is it that you've gotten loads better at wizard's chess, while I've only gotten worse?"

"Dunno, mate. Maybe you were born to be a loser."

"Stuff it, you," Harry retorted, sacrificing his rook to Ron's bloodthirsty knight. "I'm just off my game is all."

Hermione cut in with, "Another round, is it?" as she emerged from the girls' dormitories, fingers curled around several writing instruments and cradling a stack of parchment to her chest.

Ron took an imperious bite out of his fourth ginger newt as Harry replied, "Yeah, did you want to play?"

"No, thank you," her response was soft as she took a seat on the couch adjacent to Ron's lounge chair, laying out her materials beside her.

"Suit yourself," Ron remarked. "You can just witness me destroy Harry's front line."

His bishop massacred another of Harry's pawns with a single vicious swipe. "We'll see about that," he countered, eyeing the board as if he were merely scheming a foolproof plan.

His friend guffawed. "Don't act coy - you and I both know you're rubbish at defensive maneuvers."

Harry raised his head to glare briefly, but resumed his examination of the board.

They went on playing for a while in quiet, peppered about here and there with a few wisecracks from Ron, until Harry heard Hermione's voice blossoming from beside him, the pointed nature of her words belying their utterly casual delivery: "Harry and I missed you during the Transfiguration seminar this morning."

While Ron's knight was galloping into place, he mirrored her tone. "Well, here now aren't I?"

"I think you would've liked today's subject."

"Yeah?" he intoned, dull.

"Ren got to explain her condition," she coaxed.

Harry inwardly winced at the reminder. Ron, however, could not have been more disinterested. "Mm. Great."

When Harry looked at Hermione, he could see the lines on her forehead prominently as she frowned, deliberate in what she said next, even as she pretended to be engrossed with what she was writing. "What were you up to, then?"

The redhead shrugged, though he wasn't very good at hiding the tension in his shoulders. "Y'know. This and that."

"Well, if that's the case, then maybe next Sunday you'd consider going with us?" she suggested. "We could go to Hogsmeade after."

"Think not."

She finally turned toward the both of them, visibly flustered. "Well- why not?"

Ron cast her a sidelong look, saying, "Because I don't want to go?"

"I don't _understand_ -"

"It's not that complicated Hermione," he informed her, his voice suffused with attitude. "I've got enough school without going to _extra_ school over the weekend."

" _Do_ you, though?" she challenged. "You barely attend your classes as is."

Ron bristled. "I still go!" he insisted, before qualifying: " _Sometimes!_ What's it to you?"

Hermione appeared offended that he'd ask such a thing. "I don't know, let's think," she said hotly. "How about the fact you're my _best friend_ and I'm worried about you?"

Harry was ready to intervene before a full-blown argument could start, but Ron backed down, if only slightly. "There's nothing to be worried about," he told her, subdued. "I just don't care about extra credit. Don't even know why you need it, anyway."

"For _you,_ it would be to improve your marks after all the classes you've missed," she pointed out.

His sigh came out in a gust, and he leaned all the way back in his chair, his head flopping back to face the ceiling. "Who _cares?_ "

" _I_ do!" she exclaimed, frowning. "If you keep on like this, you're going to get expelled due to absence alone. Doesn't that concern you at all?"

He closed his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. "No."

Remembering what Hermione had said before, Harry spoke up, then. "Ron- I know school isn't a great time or anything, but haven't you got some kind of career you want to do?"

The redhead sat up again suddenly, pinning him with a look. "Not everyone can be you, Harry. I'm not going to be an _Auror,_ because that's not bloody realistic."

The condescending tone stung. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ron snorted. "What d'you think? You're-!"

"Don't say something you'll regret," Hermione rebuked him. "That's not even what he asked. We want to know what _you_ want to do. Not what other people think you're 'capable' of."

"Well that's just it, isn't it?" Ron sneered in her direction. "No one expects anything of me, and anything else I thought I wanted was just stupid and childish, wasn't it?"

Hermione's features softened. "Oh Ron," she murmured, crestfallen. "That's not true at all."

Her tone, rather than calming him, actually set him off. "Oh, _please_ ," he spat with a scowl. "Quidditch star? Chess champion? Till boy for a joke shop? Who am I kidding?"

Harry frowned. "None of those are bad things to do-"

"I'm going to be seventeen years old in a few months," Ron interrupted. "A proper adult. And what have I got to show for it? _Nothing._ "

Hermione leaned forward in her seat, as earnest as Harry had ever seen her. "Seventeen is still really young, Ron. You can't have it all figured out right now, you know? But so long as you just sit down and have a proper _think_ about-"

"Oh yeah, here's me with my thinking cap on," he mocked her, snatching one of her pieces of parchment and putting it on his head. "I'm not that thick, Hermione; just because I don't go to class doesn't mean I've forgot how to use my brain."

She pulled the bit of parchment from his head, the edge of it catching on Ron's lip before she put it in her lap. "I'm not saying you're stupid," she admonished him. "It just seems like you've been avoiding considering what you could possibly _do._ Have you even considered what subjects you may have an affinity for, anything that can translate into marketable job skills?"

"Ugh, not this again," he groaned.

"Well, as you said, you're almost seventeen," she reiterated. "A _proper_ adult-"

"Not everyone is bloody 'marketable'-!"

"People aren't just _lost causes_ either, Ronald!"

The sound of a throat being cleared burst into their conversation. "Should we, er… come back later?"

Neville was standing on the outskirts of the semicircle of sofas, accompanied by Seamus and Dean. Standing together in a rough semicircle, they were attired casually for the weekend, though the heavy robes draped over their arms indicated they'd ventured out of the castle.

Harry was quick to fill the awkward silence. "No, it's fine," he said, casting a brief glance in the direction of Ron and Hermione. "Did you go out to Hogsmeade?"

Neville shuffled his feet. "Oh- yeah, we did-"

"Are we seriously going to gloss over this?" Hermione burst in, frazzled. "We were just getting somewhere-!"

Ron scowled at her, clearly ready to counter that, but Harry raised his voice. "We can talk about it later. _Right?_ " He looked at them both pointedly.

The redhead grumbled something in the affirmative, while Hermione huffed.

Seamus commented, then. "If you need us to shove off while you're working something out-"

Dean cut in, "Think they're fine, mate."

Neville still looked uncertain, so Harry reassured him, "We're alright."

"They say they're alright, they're alright," Dean corroborated, giving the other boys a single pat on the back before settling himself next to Hermione. Seamus shrugged, tugging a chair over and sitting in it backwards, but Neville remained on his feet.

Ron blew out a gust of air. "To what do we owe the pleasure, gentlemen?" he questioned.

"Well," Dean said, "Best cut to it, then, yeah? Neville?"

The boy nodded, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his trousers beneath his robes. "We got to talking on the way back from Hogsmeade, and everyone's been wondering why you haven't… you know. Rounded up the troops. So to speak."

Everyone's gaze gravitated to Harry. He grew defensive under the scrutiny. "What? Why are you all looking at me?"

"D.A., Harry," Seamus mentioned, quiet. "Y'know, I thought for a while that I just wasn't invited, but turns out you've been sittin' on your hands-"

"That's not it, mate," Ron came to his defense. "There's just been a lot going on."

"Yeah, like You-Know-Who being back?" Dean commented, blunt. "We know. But wasn't the point of D.A. to prepare us to fight?"

"It was to prepare you to _defend_ yourself," Harry countered, his brow creased. "There's a big difference between the two."

Neville ran a hand across the side of his face to scratch the back of his neck. "We understand that, Harry. But, I mean, if that's the case, why don't we keep up with it? I'm sure there's loads of kids in the younger years who could benefit from knowing the best-"

"No," Harry cut him off. "There's way too much-"

"Honestly," Hermione's words overlapped his. "I don't think it's such a good idea. We've all got our N.E.W.T.s to worry about, and we really only made time for it last year because Umbridge refused to teach us."

Ron swiftly agreed, "Yeah, and now we've got Tenenbaum, and she's brilliant with all the field scenarios she does."

Seamus wrapped his arms about the chair back, leaning his chin on the very top of it. "She's a mad banshee though."

"That's a bit rude, Seamus," Hermione chastised.

Dean leaned forward in his seat, earnest. "I still think it's important to group up, just us students. We've got to learn how to support each other if we want to have a chance against Death Eaters-"

"You won't," Harry blurted, his stomach twisting.

The looks the boys gave him were varying mixtures of concern and pity. Dean clarified, "I'm not saying we plan to face them any time soon."

"They shouldn't be faced at all," he countered, clenching his fingers tightly together. "It's-"

"Isn't that what _you_ did last term?" Seamus accused, frowning.

Ron's reply was harsh, "For _once_ , just shut that massive gob of yours-!"

"No, he's right," Harry silenced him, facing the irish boy squarely. "We went in reckless and unprepared. And that's _exactly_ what can't happen again."

Neville remarked, "And of course, we would be sure to include caution in the curriculum, Harry. Others can learn from our mistakes, and we should-"

"I already told Professor Tenenbaum no, and I meant it." The delivery of this admission was as firm as he could muster.

Hermione looked surprised. "The professor spoke to you about it?"

"Yeah, a while back," Harry sighed. "And if she couldn't convince me, then you lot certainly won't."

Seamus snorted. "Boy… tell us how you really feel."

Neville mustered a strained smile. "I know you aren't trying to say anything bad about us, Harry, but we think this is really important."

"Here's the thing, Harry," Dean said, leaning his elbows on his knees, gesturing to get his point across. "This is bigger than just you. Whatever it started as, D.A. became a place for students to help each other, to grow closer together. There was a _unity_ there that didn't exist anywhere else in the castle. The members felt like they had somewhere they belonged. D.A. was something that even crossed House lines… which, believe me, is nearly _unheard_ of. It's impossible to deny the kind of community it inspired, and, and… don't we _need_ that right about now?"

With an argument like that, it was hard to say no. Still, Harry knew they could never be in agreement about this… the very prospect of taking up the club's mantle again felt physically repulsed. He did _not_ want to talk about this.

Thankfully, he was saved from having to do so by Hermione, who, normally so stalwart in her convictions, had evidently been swayed by Dean's pronouncement. "I know what you mean, and those are all good things to cultivate, but I think there are other ways to do that," she ventured before sitting straighter and articulating precisely, "I've actually founded a school club to support equal representation for Muggleborns."

Ron spluttered, "What?! _When?_ "

"Officially?" she replied, controlled. "Just this morning. But I've been working on it since the beginning of term."

Seamus raised his eyebrows. "What's 'officially' mean?"

Hermione's tone was crisp. "It's a sanctioned, legitimate organization with signed approval from the Headmaster and a designated faculty representative."

"Sounds impressive!" Neville commented, sincere.

Ron was much less so. "What've you named this one, then?" he chuckled with mocking disbelief. "'Tosh'? 'Bogey'? Was one useless club not enough for you?"

She rounded on him, face red, though, judging by her next words, she'd been well prepared for this. "They aren't _useless_ , Ronald. _I'm_ planning to make an actual difference in this school, which is more than I can say for _you_."

"Yeah?" Ron countered, tone venomous. "What are you going to do? Knit little hats for Muggleborns? Get real, Hermione!"

"I am!" she declared. "If you'd just listen for two seconds-"

"Weren't you the one who just said 'oh, we don't have time for clubs, we've got N.E.W.T.s'?!"

"Don't you twist this around!" Hermione accused him, flustered. "Just because _you've_ decided you don't care about anything doesn't mean I have to!"

Ron abruptly stood, shrugging his robes back on. "I don't have to listen to this."

"Where are you going?" Hermione demanded. "You pr-"

"See you, Harry," the redhead purposely ignored her, giving the other boys a mock salute. "Chaps."

Neville offered a feeble, uncertain wave as Ron took leave of the common room entirely, leaving the five of them sitting there in stunned silence. Seamus looked deeply uncomfortable, Dean sympathetic, and Neville downcast. When Harry chanced a glance at Hermione, she looked poised to cry, her fingers twisting in her lap.

"Oh, I _hate_ him sometimes," she seethed, her voice warbling with the threat of tears. "I really do."

"You don't mean that," Harry quietly interceded.

Hermione pierced him with a sharp glare. "And what were _you_ doing? Just letting him talk to me like that?"

His objection was feeble. "I- I wasn't…"

She stood up right as a tear escaped one of her lashes, gathering her papers. "Think I'll put these flyers together in the dorm after all," she said, turned away from them all. "The first club meeting is next Tuesday after dinner in the Muggle Studies classroom; you're all invited."

With that parting announcement, she disappeared up the stairs to the girls dormitory. Harry busied himself with packing up the wizard's chess set so he didn't have to look at the others.

Seamus broke the silence. "Do those two ever quit fighting?"

Harry grimaced. It was more than that. He couldn't strictly pinpoint what made this time seem different, but… He could _feel_ it. These weren't just petty squabbles anymore, were they? There was something deeper running beneath their words, and he had no idea how to identify it, much less where he could possibly begin the work of fixing it.

Neville inquired, "Will she be alright?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, s'pose so."

Dean remarked, "I think Hermione has always had great vision, but…" He looked at Harry. "What this school needs more is a leader."

Harry dropped his eyes, closing up the wooden box of the chess set with a definitive clack. "I'm going to get ready for Quidditch practice."

Dean's brow furrowed. "What? That's not for hours, yet."

"Yeah, that's the idea," he returned, tucking the box beneath his elbow and walking away.

Harry had no destination in mind, but, at that moment, anywhere seemed a better choice.

••••••••••

By the time four o'clock came around, Harry had given himself a massive headache from trying, and failing, to figure a way to reconcile Ron and Hermione to each other. Equally dismaying was the fact that his exhaustion had fully caught up to him once more.

Ginny elbowed him in the arm, her safety pads digging in uncomfortably. "You've missed the whole of Katie's pep talk, Harry," she informed him, displeased.

He blinked around, slow to remember that he was at Quidditch practice, sitting in the changing rooms. It looked like the rest of the team had already left, and that fact roused Harry enough for him to shoot automatically to his feet, blearily alert. "Did I miss practice?" he asked, voice thick.

The girl got to her feet, fixing him with a pointed stare. "Not yet," was her stiff reply. "But it would be a near thing if I wasn't here."

Harry sighed, relieved but still tense. "Right. Um, thanks for that."

Ginny folded her arms. "You've been really out of it lately, you know-"

"Yeah, I'm…" He let out another sigh. "I mean, N.E.W.T.s and all…you know, pretty tired."

"Sure." She rolled her eyes. "But if you're this bad off, you can go catch some sleep, Harry."

"No, it's fine, I'll-"

"We'll survive without you for one day," Ginny pointed out, grabbing hold of her broomstick.

"No," Harry insisted, taking up his Firebolt at the same time. "I want to play. _Really_."

The girl before him frowned, offering him a shrug. "If you say so."

When they walked out onto the pitch, Katie called out to him, "Good to see you're looking better, Harry!"

The team was running Keeper drills it looked like… Dean was hovering near the goalposts, breathing hard and leaning heavily on the front end of his broom while all the rest of the team plotted their next maneuver to bombard his line of defense. The moment Harry's name was mentioned, all eyes fell on him, and Dennis Creevey waved an enthusiastic hand in the air, his broomstick bouncing with the force of his joy.

Bashful and, if he was honest, still dead tired, Harry turned to blink at Ginny. "Did you, er…?"

"Told them you were under the weather," she admitted, shrugging again. "Not that it wasn't obvious already."

 _Was it?_ Harry rubbed at his eyes once or twice before mounting his broom, his hair fluttering against his forehead as the Firebolt brought him level with his teammates. On his arrival, he could hear Katie saying, "... a good play, now that Harry's here. Demelza, let's have you and Ginny flank, Dennis can head straight down the middle- show him that mean right hook of yours. And then Harry-"

He sucked in a short breath and sat up straighter, his mind having begun drifting off somewhere in the middle. "Yeah?"

"You're always really good at those hairpin turns, plus you've got the speed most of us don't. I just want you to get in Dean's way, act like you're going for the Snitch, but just sort of dodging past everyone."

"Right." Easy enough, he supposed, though the situation was less than ideal considering the unpleasantness of his recent run-in with Dean.

"Okay, it's settled," Katie concluded, and her smile could be heard in her tone. "You all know what you've got to do? Good. Let's give him hell, eh? Sure bet Slytherin won't grant him any mercy in the next match."

The group broke up, everyone drifting about the area, eyeing Dean like prey. For his part, he seemed to have recovered his breath, gripping the neck of his broom tight.

Harry took up his perch high center, the soles of his shoes making a rubbery noise as he positioned them on the broom's stirrups. The familiar vantage point helped steady him some, his mind automatically on alert for the Snitch, despite knowing there wasn't one about.

"Ready?!" Katie's voice carried across the pitch.

The chill wind stirred his hair; Dean juked to the side as if he'd been expecting an early onslaught.

Harry's focus narrowed as Demelza leaned forward on her broom and Ginny affixed her goggles to her face. His fingers were cold and clammy inside his half-gloves.

At the climax of their anticipation, Dennis stopped fidgeting, his broom steady as a rock. Harry sucked in a gust of air, readying himself for the first dive…

"GO!"

••••••••••

He awoke to the bleary, familiar sight of the Hospital Wing ceiling.

Harry blinked. The effort to close and open his eyelids was tremendous; the fuzzy environs lent the real world a dreamlike tinge that tempted him to rest.

Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey's distant, emphatic words helped coax him into wakefulness.

"Young lady, you go back right now and tell Severus I absolutely _refuse_ to accept potions brewed by students!"

The answering voice was just as easy to place as well. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I can't do that."

Harry turned his head toward the sound of Croft's voice, wincing at a pain which bloomed from his right leg and shoulder. His glasses and wand lay on his bedside table, as they usually did whenever he found himself subjected to the infirmary's staid atmosphere. There was no curtain around his bed, so he had an unimpeded view of the two women, standing just outside the matron's office.

"You can, and you will," Pomfrey insisted. "I take the recovery of my patients _far_ too seriously to be made a mockery of."

Croft rebalanced the crate of vials in her arms, no more convinced than she had been before. "I take the recovery of your patients with the utmost severity as well, Madam Pomfrey."

"Then march yourself back to Professor Snape and tell him to do his _own_ job," the woman retorted, arms falling sternly akimbo.

"The second I go back down, Professor Snape will force me back here, and this argument will happen again. I'm saving us both the effort, ma'am."

"If he won't see reason, I'll confront him myself!" was Pomfrey's determination.

"I can't stop you; that's your prerogative. However, I would prefer to have us avoid that unpleasantness altogether."

Harry quashed a small snort at that understatement. Snape was about as "unpleasant" as they came.

Still, this did not deter the matron in the slightest. "I have very strict instructions on how those potions are meant to be made, and I cannot abide this laziness on his part. Mr. Potter needs bruise healing paste, and this delay is unprofessional, to say the least!"

It had never occurred to him that Snape was the one who brewed potions for the Hospital Wing. Perhaps it should have - after all, despite the varied supply of potions, he'd never seen a cauldron around the place. All the same, it sort of made him want to squirm, knowing that the professor's hands had touched them.

"I am completely aware of your standards, I assure you," Croft replied, the utter picture of serenity. Without his glasses, he couldn't see her face clearly, but her demeanor said it all. It was an odd contrast to their last meeting in Hogsmeade, when she'd gone off on Ron. "And I can also promise that Professor Snape would not have sent me had they not _met_ those standards."

"Miss Croft, I understand my objections may sound like an insult, but it's a matter of principle," Pomfrey informed her with a sigh. "It's not right for the man to set you on duties given to _him_."

Harry grimaced. _What an arsehole._ Losing the battle against his lethargy, he closed his heavy eyelids, though that didn't stop him from hearing the rest.

"If it's a matter of efficacy, I'm happy to let you test them." He heard the sound of the clinking vials as Croft shifted the crate in her arms again. "On me, if need be."

"That won't be necessary…"

"Then I'm afraid I don't quite understand the problem, Madam Pomfrey."

"Miss Croft, the problem is that you are a student, not a certified Potioneer, and an even farther cry from a Master."

"I was overseen by a Master, who approved the formulations before they were vialed."

Harry heard Pomfrey expel a frustrated sigh. "You aren't going to let this go, are you?"

"I apologize, ma'am, but I'm not."

"He sure does like to send me the live ones, doesn't he?" The matron sounded quite put upon. "Very well. I'll still be having _words_ with Severus, but leave the crate just there on the counter." As Croft began to move, the matron added, "And mind that you don't disturb Mr. Potter's rest."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

Opening his eyes once more, he watched Croft pass, her footfalls as delicate as one could possibly manage while hauling around a container about the size of her torso. She settled it atop a nearby table, hardly making a sound in the process.

He blinked once, slowly, before addressing her, "Hey."

"Oh," she breathed, surprised. "Uh, hi."

"Do you have the time?"

He watched as Croft squinted at him, before her gaze went to one of the walls. He didn't understand why, but she flinched, her face immediately flying to the ceiling. "Probably past seven. Why?"

"Oh." He stretched out his uninjured leg, shifting on the bed gingerly. "That late already."

"Slept the day away, huh?" Croft glanced down the length of him, eyes drawn by his movement. "What happened here?"

Staring into the space above him, Harry shrugged. "Dunno. Probably some Quidditch accident again."

"You don't know how you got injured?"

His gaze drifted to her. "Remember being on the broom and doing… something. Otherwise, not really."

Her brow furrowed, an odd display of concern overshadowing her features. "Did the impact knock you out, or were you going unconscious before the collision?"

Hard to say, really. Harry took in a breath, hoping it would clear his head; he was so tired… Even answering these questions seemed strenuous. "Don't think I hit my head, no. Think my shoulder got a bit battered somehow, and the leg uh…"

"Broken," Madam Pomfrey supplied as she reached the other side of his bed. She shot a critical glance in Croft's direction. "I thought I told you _not_ to disturb him."

"He asked me for the time," Croft excused herself.

"Mr. Potter, you need not trouble yourself with your schedule just now," the woman instructed him, direct. "In addition to that nasty break of yours, your teammates indicated you were already feeling under the weather. Want to tell me about that?"

"Just tired, was all. Nothing serious."

Where Madam Pomfrey normally would have replied, he heard Croft barge in instead. "Were you having a headache?" she asked, frowning. "Felt dizzy? Weakness in your limbs?"

"Ehm, well…" he began, but the matron cut in again.

"I'll thank you to let me do _my_ job as well, Miss Croft."

That didn't stop the girl. "Harry, did Professor Trelawney ever open those windows?"

"Yeah," he answered, grateful there was at least one thing he could say confidently, "I opened them right after you left."

Relief visibly washed over her, escaping in a loud sigh. "Okay. _Okay_. Good."

Madam Pomfrey probably didn't know what they were talking about, but neither did she seem of a mind to pry. "Potter, I'll need you to focus, and I can't give you Wideye when you've already had something for the pain."

His mind stuck on an odd detail. "How'd I drink a potion if I was unconscious?"

The witch gave him a patient sigh, saying, "This is exactly what I mean, but I'll humor you this once by reminding you not all potions are drinkable. Professor Snape ought to have taught you that much."

Croft leaned down and whispered, "Topical," by way of explanation.

"Right," he murmured, thick. "Um. I'm… I'm awake."

"You don't look it, but I'll take your word for now," Pomfrey remarked, peering at his shoulder. "Considering I wasn't able to discern any other ailments… Potter, how much sleep have you been getting?"

Harry glanced between her and Croft, his brain feeling fuzzy. "Some," he answered with a small frown.

"'Some'?" she echoed back. "And how much is 'some'?"

He shrugged, a tad uncomfortable to say. "I've just been catching up on a lot of homework," he dodged the question.

The matron hummed in disapproval. "And I suppose you think that's a reason to neglect your health, Mr. Potter?"

"No," he submitted, meek.

"You'll stay here tonight so I can be certain of a full night's sleep from you, and to ensure that leg of yours will hold you up tomorrow."

He sat up suddenly, anxiousness suffusing his body with energy as his expression turned beseeching. "But Madam Pomfrey-!"

The mattress depressed as Croft sat down beside him on the bed. "You need to listen to her, Harry," she implored. "She knows what she's talking about, and she's trying to do what's best for you."

He could hardly mention that he had work to do for the Order, even if he _hadn't_ been in mixed company. Turning toward the older woman, he pleaded, "I have something to do tonight. I can't stay holed up in here."

"You can, and you will," she insisted, pointing toward the pillow. "Lie back down, now."

He did not obey. "Please- if… if I can prove that my leg is working alright, can I at least go for a little while, then come back later?"

"I doubt your recovery will be so rapid-"

" _Please?_ " Harry's hands were clenched around the edges of the sheet. "It's _really_ important."

Madam Pomfrey regarded him with pity. "There is always something important happening, child. But your swift recovery is just as important. I can't allow you to go off and injure yourself further," she replied with a note of finality. "Now lie down, and get some rest. I'll be stepping out to speak with Professor Snape, but I expect you to be right where I left you when I return, is that clear?"

Deflating, his head hit the pillow with a soft thud. "Yes ma'am."

"Good. Would you like a curtain to deter visitors?"

"No ma'am."

His formality wasn't lost on her. "I truly am sorry, Potter. But perhaps this will teach you to take better care of yourself in future."

Harry didn't reply, staring at the fabric of the mattress as it bunched beneath Croft's weight. Normally, he didn't mind being coddled a bit, but today was a special case. He absolutely _had_ to get out of here. The matron hovered a glass of water onto the table beside his bed before she left. The moment the doors closed, he lifted his eyes to the girl beside him.

"I hate the Hospital Wing," he muttered, his dejected gaze falling away quickly.

"No, I don't think many people like being in a bad way," she agreed. "Not many happy reasons to be in hospital."

"It's like a _prison,_ " Harry commented, knowing he was being a bit dramatic, but not quite awake enough to care. "I've been here so many times, there isn't a bed in here I haven't slept in."

"I can't imagine how tough that is," she sympathized.

Letting out an explosive sigh, he shifted in the bed, jerkily grabbing hold of his glasses to shove them on. Harry cast about for something else to say, not particularly wanting to dwell on his predicament. "That's a lot of potions you brought," he observed, inclining his head toward the crate.

She look back at them, a satisfied smile crawling across her face. "I spent all day brewing them."

Harry frowned. "Rotten luck."

"It was fun, actually," she told him. "I've never done large-batch brewing before. I liked it. Kept me on my toes."

He stuck out his tongue in an expression of disgust. "Sounds like a nightmare to me," he confessed with raised eyebrows. Then, sobering, he said, "So… I take it things went well with Snape, then?"

"In part thanks to you," she admitted, abashed. "I'm… really grateful, by the way."

"Oh. Hermione told you about that?" Surprised, and a little embarrassed, Harry stared at the glass of water at his side.

Croft chuckled. "In between giving me the business about taking you off campus without letting anyone know, yeah."

He shrugged, even though it made his shoulder twinge. "Sorry- she can be a little intense, but- it's my fault, really. I should have known it would make her worry."

"I should have considered it in the first place," Croft pointed out. "Considering your… I don't know - renown, I guess."

"Pff, yeah," Harry answered. "Still. I don't really regret it. It was a fun day."

"It was," she agreed, before the levity in her expression sobered. "I'm sorry for snapping at your friend like that," Croft apologized rather suddenly, her head turning to look out the window.

That wrung an airy chuckle from him. "It's fine. Ron kind of deserved it."

She shook her head. "It was my fault from the start anyway," she admitted. "Thea didn't need to hear that from a stranger."

"How is she?"

She dropped her eyes to her lap, her fingers playing with one another. "Angry," she said. "She needs a little time."

"Makes sense," Harry replied, looking at her. "But- um. This thing with Snape. Does that mean you're staying?"

Croft finally looked at him. "Yes."

His reaction wasn't quite as neutral as he thought it would be, an indefinable feeling gripping him. "That's… good. That's really good," Harry remarked, surprised that he meant it. "So, you're still my tutor, then?"

"If you'll have me," she intoned, the ghost of a smile shimmering over her lips. "Though, I might end up needing that Defense tutoring after all, I guess."

His answering smile came involuntarily. "You might, yeah."

"We'll see how far you get until you realize how hopeless my offensive casting is."

"I'll warn you," Harry joked with a wry slant to his lips, "I'm really bad at giving up."

"I'll keep that in mind," Croft dismissed, waving a hand. Then, she shifted on the mattress, her gaze going to his leg. "How's that feeling?"

"Not a lot, honestly," Harry remarked, sliding the sheet off his leg to get a proper look. "Pomfrey's got the good stuff for breaks, usually."

"Mind if I take a look?"

He waved a hand for her to go ahead. Croft stood and edged around the circumference of the bed, wand already in hand. The leg of his trousers was torn at the spot, and the sight of flecks of blood clued Harry in that his injury had previously been worse, though the skin was now unmarred aside from some pretty horrid bruises. All it took was a single swipe over the air above his injured leg before an image of the inside of it was hovering beside his knee - a nonverbal _Intus Videre_ diagnostic he recognized from Charms.

"Nifty spell, that," the girl remarked. "Don't have to fiddle around with things like x-rays."

"I'm not sure I know what that is," he admitted.

"A type of electro-" She halted, mid-sentence, and shook her head. "Just a thing Muggles use to see your bones."

"Oh, I think Dudley had that once," he commented, off-hand, before tensing. He'd rather not lead the conversation toward the Dursleys if he could help it. "Anyway, what's the diagnosis, doctor?"

She laughed at that, but it sounded subdued, struck with humility. "I'm a bit showy like that, aren't I? I'm sorry."

"No- er, I didn't mean…" Harry frowned. "Just asking- y'know, how my leg is. I've seen a few medical dramas back home, just thought it would be funny…"

The look on her face was odd. He couldn't place or read it; that seemed to be a problem when it came to Slytherins. "It was," she promised him, but her heart didn't seem in it. However, she didn't dwell on it, instead looking down at the display, her lips twisting in thought.

"I don't know what it was like before," she admitted after a protracted silence. "But it's healed up into a hairline fracture now - down your tibia, see?" She dragged her wand across the image of the thicker bone in the lower part of his leg - he could see it, sort of, when he strained his eyes. A small line, like a crack, slithering down the length of bone, ending just at his ankle.

"That doesn't seem so bad," Harry commented.

"You'd be surprised," was her soft rejoinder. "It's still not a good idea to move. Right now, your osteoblasts and other cells are creating a callus that the osteoblasts will then convert into new bone as it heals." Her nose wrinkled. "That's what I believe Skele-Gro does, anyway. Speeds up that process. Normal remodeling takes months. Yours would probably only take a day."

"Well I mean, it took a day to regrow my bones _entirely_ ," he pointed out, a sliver of hope gripping him. "So it ought to take much less time to heal a little thing like that, right?"

Her frown was pensive as she considered this. "It's not an unreasonable hypothesis. It'd help me if I had a frame of reference as to what sort of fracture you had. And this is dependent upon if my assumption of what Skele-Gro does is even correct in the first place."

"Worth a try, isn't it?" Harry sat up again, muscles protesting against his vigor.

"What's worth a try?"

"The Skele-Gro, obviously!" he laughed, confused that she had to ask. "Was it one of the ones you brewed? Or do you suppose Pomfrey keeps it somewhere else?"

"Harry," she reproved, her wand slicing through the anatomical image to dismiss it. "No. She already has you on a regimen. It could be dangerous if you overdose."

"I'm not going to drink the whole bottle!" he scoffed. "I've had broken bones loads of times; I know how much is a regular dose."

" _Any_ dose after your regular one is an overdose," she informed him. "What if you caused some sort of ossification reaction that-"

"I don't know what that is," he confronted her, point-blank, "but she can't have dosed me yet; I just woke up!"

"Mediwizards _spell_ potion into patients' stomachs if they're unconscious and unable to take it orally," she argued. "Like an IV."

Harry's expression was resolute, even though he began to feel the dread of fighting a losing battle. "Look, Croft- I have to get out of here-"

"Why, though?" Croft questioned, frustratingly obstinate. Her expression was all wonky again. "I know being in the infirmary isn't fun, but it's Sunday. If you have homework needs I'm sure that your friends could drop it by-"

"I have detention, actually," he lied after only a second of deliberation. "With Filch. And I'm sure you _must_ know he's not the most merciful person."

Croft didn't look like she believed him in the slightest. "You're going to have to do better than that, Harry."

He dropped his torso back to the bed with a short huff. "Whatever. Obviously I'm stuck in this bed anyway; Pomfrey will make sure of it."

"It's just a day," Croft reasoned, sounding a great deal like she was getting tired of being in opposition to him. "You need the sleep."

Harry looked at her, jaw clenching with all the arguments he would have liked to voice, but he didn't. He saw there was no use in it - of course she wasn't going to help him take unauthorized potion when she was so medically-minded herself. Besides, maybe it was better this way; with her gone, she wouldn't get in trouble for him breaking the rules.

"Guess I am pretty tired," he capitulated, his deceptive words punctuated by a very real yawn. "At least if I'm asleep, I won't have to look at this room any longer."

Maybe he became agreeable too fast, because Croft's eyes narrowed as she uttered a soft, "Yes." Her next movements were measured as she traversed the space around his bed, taking the nearby crate in her arms. He watched as she ambled across the room, taking it into Madam Pomfrey's office.

It was irritating, but at least it confirmed something. She _had_ brewed Skele-Gro.

Croft emerged moments later, smoothing her hands over her robes. "I have to get back to Snape," she announced. "He's probably wondering where I've gone off to."

He grimaced in response. "I suppose you shouldn't keep him waiting."

"No," she muttered. For what it was worth, however, her expression softened after that. She looked over his bed, stuffing her hands into her pockets. "I'm sorry, Harry. Please feel better soon."

His mouth twitched into the approximation of a smile. "I'll do my best," he replied, wistful. She turned her back, exiting silently through the large wooden doors.

He waited one minute. Then two. After the third, he threw his sheet fully off his body as he sat up on the side of the bed, swinging his legs over while keeping the injured one suspended above the ground. He felt _really_ sore all over, which meant Pomfrey had likely only used pain potion on his leg and nothing else. He could barely feel his leg at all, but he knew he still needed to be careful with it. Despite what he was doing, Harry didn't actually _want_ to injure himself further.

Alright, he needed a plan. He was still in his Quidditch trousers, and only his undershirt on top. If he was going to properly sneak about without drawing attention later that evening, he'd need his Invisibility Cloak… Lifting his eyes, he spotted his school bag, causing him to blow out a relieved breath. He'd have to thank whoever had grabbed it from his locker.

Next was the matter of the potion, which was a good ten meters away, now. He grabbed his wand from the end table, holding it in both hands as he wracked his mind for a spell that could assist him in this situation. Most of the movement ones were… violent, for the lack of a better term. And he wasn't so great at self-spells, so trying to make his injured leg feather light was probably going to backfire.

Maybe he didn't have to think quite that hard, he realized. He just needed something to lean on so he could hop over; he was working against the clock after all. Madam Pomfrey could come back any moment.

A simple _Accio_ brought a chair scraping across the stone floor to him. Leveraging his weight on his left arm, which was clutching the wooden slats firmly, he began making his awkward way over to the office, one quick footstep and one clomping bang of the chair after the other.

Finally, after several painstaking minutes, he reached the crate, and he twisted the chair so he could sit in it beside the counter, breathing hard. No time to waste. He slid the carton of potions into his lap to peruse the contents. Thankfully, everything was labeled, otherwise he would have had quite a nightmare of a time, considering the sheer _amount_ of vials in the crate. Exactly _how long_ had she been brewing for? Twelve hours? It was absurd how much was in there.

He replaced the crate, unstopping the bottle and taking a breath. Ugh, bad choice - he could smell it already, and he hadn't even brought it close yet. But Harry knew this was his only chance, and drinking a little gross potion was a small price to pay.

Two small sips. They made him shudder something awful, but he could discern no difference between this brew and any of the other Skele-Gros he'd taken. Good sign.

Harry knew it wouldn't work immediately, but he had roughly three hours until he had to be at the Headmaster's office. Until then, he had to lie low, get a message to Ron and Hermione, and somehow not alarm anyone like he'd done the last time he'd mysteriously disappeared from the school. Three hours evading capture with one leg out of commission. Normally it would seem impossible to accomplish, but he was possessed of a strange vigor, springing from some previously untapped well hidden deep inside him.

Despite his injuries, his delirium, his fatigue… Harry felt quite up to the task.

His body still felt heavy when he and Snape arrived in… wherever they were.

Upon entering the Headmaster's office, he had been met with only the Potions Master to greet him. Although, "greet" was a generous term, considering the fact the man hadn't spoken a single word; meaning, of course, Harry had no introduction to their present occupation. All he knew was that they were once again in an unfamiliar environment, walking at a brisk pace along a moonlit shoreline. His leg was, thankfully, functioning well enough for him to keep up.

Harry sighed. Without Dumbledore to establish the premise of their outing, he felt even more listless than usual. "I suppose you'll be wanting me to stay both unseen and unheard yet again," he commented toward the ground in front of him, not bothering to frame it like a question.

The ocean breeze picked up Snape's hair and tossed it over his shoulder in tangled strands. "That won't be necessary," the man said, his deep voice carried on alongside the gentle crash of the waves beside them. He did not elaborate further, but the answer itself was still perplexing.

"What, not going to _snap_ later and tell me to shut up?" Harry challenged, folding his arms over his chest as they walked. "You expect me to believe that?"

The man glared at him, then. "I might, if you insist on remaining belligerent."

"See, that's what I mean," he retorted, purposely training his gaze in a direction that excluded Snape's form.

They both fell silent, boots molding the grass as they went. The evening was very cold, leaving Harry grateful that he'd thought to wear a proper cloak, but his cheeks were numb, his eyes watering as a slight shift of wind sneaked around the frames of his glasses. His arms folded tighter, a chill rippling across his skin.

Ugh, he hated the cold and dark. Even more so since he was forced to skulk about with Snape… Harry just felt so unbearably tired of dealing with the man's bad temper. All he wanted was to leave. He was anxious to get back to Grimmauld Place before the day ended; he hardly cared about anything else when Snape was unlikely to include him anyway.

As Harry gazed out across the water, he noticed he could not distinguish where the ocean stopped and the sky began. The landscape had a blurry sort of look, as if someone had smeared a bunch of dark paint together to form the approximation of a beach.

They'd started their journey from an innocuous patch of coastline, all rocky outcroppings and wet sand, but no visible destination. Now, they trod on stone and vegetation as the ground beneath them climbed higher, the jagged cliff edge staying close by their side as they approached the first signs of civilization. Albeit, even in the dark, the architecture struck Harry as very old; there was a low stone barrier, uneven but square, which separated them from the silhouettes of three squat lighthouses, all within the same enclosure.

Unable to keep quiet any longer, Harry inquired, "Three lighthouses is a bit much, isn't it?"

"There are at least four in this area."

"Okay, but… _why?_ "

The man said nothing at all and Harry rolled his eyes, cupping his hands over his mouth to breathe hot air onto his chilled fingers. They trudged onward, veering off toward a break in the stone wall and heading in the direction of the nearest lighthouse, which was attached to a blocky structure. His right leg began smarting as they went - the pain potions Pomfrey had administered must have started to wear off. He winced, but otherwise did not dare alert Snape in word or action. Harry already felt as if he was treading on thin ice with these Order missions. No need to give the man more reasons to call the whole thing off.

When they finally reached the entrance to the building, his leg was aching pretty bad, but still holding together. Snape brandished his wand, using it to unlock the shadowed door with a simple _Alohamora_.

"This is a safehouse, right?" Harry questioned.

"Of a kind."

"Well, all the others had these fancy sort of things going on. Isn't it a bit… I don't know. Insecure? To just have a regular lock on the door?"

Snape cast him an irritated look. "Are you simple? We passed through five warding boundaries on the way here."

Harry blinked. "What? We did?"

The professor did not grace him with a reply, stepping into the dusty entryway with wandlight held aloft. Harry carried on, looking about at the cold, abandoned interior as they passed through. No furniture, no appliances, no personal effects; it seemed that no one had lived there for a long time.

There was something deeply unsettling about an empty house, Harry decided. The stagnant air curled up in dark corners, forgotten. A house without inhabitants was just a husk, purposeless and hollow. He walked quickly so he wouldn't have to look at it any longer.

Across a short hall, the lighthouse stairway arose before them. Harry frowned, dreading the trip when he saw how narrow and precarious the spiral was. Snape ascended ahead of him, and, as Harry began walking, he found many of the stairs mouldy and uneven, further jostling his injured leg. Slowly, painfully, he followed after Snape's wand-light as they both made their way up to the top.

He had to admit, the view of the ocean outside was spectacular, though the windows were dirty and cracked. Snape was nearby, perusing the contents of a low bookcase. As Harry steeled himself to walk normally around the derelict lantern, the man selected a book, smoothing out each page as he flipped past.

"What's that?" he asked without much hope of an answer.

His assumption proved true, since Snape did indeed stay silent. He was beginning to think that the man was developing a habit of pretending Harry simply wasn't there. And while that treatment wasn't anything _new,_ it still set him on edge.

"This your summer home or something?" Harry joked without humor, dread compelling him to seek _any_ reaction from the man. "Needs some work, I think."

Nothing. Snape flipped a page. The quiet was horrible.

Desperate, he ventured a third time, "Is this still-?"

He was cut off by the booming sound of a book slamming shut. "Must every moment be filled with your _wittering,_ Potter?"

He'd anticipated this reaction, but it didn't feel good to be right. Harry frowned, the pressure in his chest barely lessened by Snape's reply. "Well, maybe it would help if you actually _answered_ any of my questions."

"I have," Snape crisply informed him. "You simply lack the critical thinking to reach any of your own conclusions."

Harry threw up his hands. "First you tell me I'm stupid for assuming things and doing whatever I want, and now I'm stupid for _not_ doing that?"

The man took out his wand and Harry instantly tensed, but Snape merely turned toward the lantern, swinging his wand in a slow, vertical arc, strong blue light burgeoning within. The lantern screeched to life, brightening the room to such a degree that Harry had to shield his eyes, and it turned as if it were being hand-cranked. Maybe it was - Snape seemed to be guiding it with his wand, his attention focused on something beyond the cloudy glass in which they were encased. Harry followed his gaze outside, but all he could see was dark swaths of water.

But wait - as the deep blue light of the lantern swept past the surrounding coastline, Harry could see something in the distance, a shimmering _something_ on the water which flashed into existence only when it was illuminated. Pressing a finger to the glass as he peered closer to get a good look outside, Harry remarked, " _That's_ where we're going, isn't it?"

The light swept past again, that time slower. Another time, slower still. Was Snape trying to pinpoint it? "It's off that side, there," Harry pointed out. "Just between those two bits of rock."

The professor did not directly respond, but the next time the light came around, he appeared to dwell a little longer on the space Harry had indicated. Sure enough, the object came to sight. It was so far out that Harry had trouble discerning what it was, but it seemed roughly cylindrical.

A thought crept up on him, then. "Er… this might be a good time to mention that I can't swim."

Snape fixed him with an impatient stare. "And what would you call your Tri-Wizard excursion, then, Potter?"

"Extreme luck and body transformation," Harry admitted. Blunt honesty would get his point across more easily; he'd rather not have a lecture from Snape about how Harry drowning was such a _burden._

The man's expression did not change in the slightest. "Is it in fashion to refer to thievery as 'luck'?"

Offended, Harry burst out with, "I'm not a thief-!"

Snape's doubtful hum was overshadowed by a loud meow from Harry's feet. He flinched, a mixture of instinct and skittishness prompting him to snap his wand in the direction of the sound as he took an automatic step back. Only when his heart had slowed somewhat did he realize that the intruder was simply a regular striped brown cat, although, notably, it was missing a tail. Letting out a breath, Harry grumbled, "Where the hell did _that_ come from?"

"That," the professor indicated, "is our guide."

The cat let out a series of mewls at Snape, as if striking up a conversation. The sight was so bizarre that Harry made a face of confusion and distaste, watching on as the professor followed the animal's gentle footfalls back down the stairs as if nothing at all were amiss.

Irksome as it was to discover he had to descend the stairs he had just suffered through, Harry was able to do some creative footwork to avoid further jostling of his leg. Reaching the bottom, his bemused question surfaced. "Why is our 'guide' a cat, again?"

"The architect of this place wished for its defenses to remain innocuous and unassuming, I would imagine," Snape replied, droll.

"So, it's not a real cat?" Harry surmised. "It's… something else? Disguised as a stray?"

Snape did not confirm nor deny, so Harry pressed, "What is it, then?"

The professor turned his back in a way that Harry could only describe as _purposeful._ They passed through the shell of the house in crushing silence.

Once they were outside, the cat sauntered into a sharp left, walking directly toward the cliffside. Feeling as if he were in primary school again, playing an extremely odd game of follow-the-leader, he and Snape trailed after, awash in the sea breeze. The freezing cold was a shock to Harry's system, and he began to shiver in earnest just as the cat paused, sitting at the very top of the rock face, its head dipping as it licked a paw and dragged it across its face.

A whole five seconds passed and Harry was already fed up with the wait. "Maybe you could tell the 'guide' to hurry it up!" he expelled at the professor, temper flaring.

The moment he looked back, however, the cat had vanished. He blinked, squinting around them in a frantic effort to locate the stupid animal, but halted his search when he saw Snape approach their guide's previous perch. Without the slightest hesitation in his step, the man walked _directly off the ledge,_ his fitted robe flapping once about his knees, and disappeared from view.

A cold fear grabbed hold of him, pushing the air out of his lungs. Reason suggested that the older man hadn't dashed himself on the rocks below, that there was something magical at play, but Harry's overwrought mind took his sudden isolation to heart. Because wasn't this just what Snape wanted? To make a fool of Harry in order to prove him utterly useless to the Order once and for all? Or worse, to leave Harry behind, vulnerable to whatever servant of Voldemort was lying in wait?

The image of Barty Crouch Jr.'s face swam in his vision; his eyes darted about in an effort to dispel it. Unable to stop himself, Harry approached the cliff's edge, his breath coming shallow. There was nothing at the bottom but stone and sea, but that was hardly conclusive.

He had his wand gripped so tightly it hurt, staring at the distance. A hundred meters down to the shore, but the cliff was steeply sloped and dotted with sharp outcroppings. He was scared - _terrified,_ really - but he had to go, didn't he? If things didn't turn in his favor, he could always Apparate back to the top… underage magic laws be damned.

Harry knew the trick had to be magic. Of _course_ he did. But there was still something viscerally horrifying about stepping off solid ground and letting himself fall. When he took the step, his whole body tensed, throat clenched around a scream -

And his feet landed on a solid plank of wood. Thrown off balance by the awkward shift in gravity, Harry stumbled forward, his knees making hard impact with the platform. His first exhale was harsh, laden with a fear that escaped from him, rushed in its departure.

From his surroundings, he first took notice of the sounds. The structure beneath his hands and knees groaned under his weight, the alarming noise signaling age and instability. He could hear water lapping at the edges of something, the sound of cloth fluttering in the wind… and a distinct, high-pitched mewl. Harry lifted his head to lock gazes with the cat guide, its eyes round and unblinking as it lounged nearby, as if it were waiting for him to arrive.

With a groan, he levered himself up, the pain causing sweat to spring to his forehead despite the awful chill. Pushing his glasses back into place, Harry realized he was standing on a boat, the coastline only distantly visible. He didn't know much about boats, but perhaps he didn't need to; after all, the spacious top deck upon which he was standing was covered in rust and grime, the wood beneath his feet rotted and wet, and barnacles clung to every exposed surface. During his inspection, Harry's attention was drawn to an open trapdoor, from which warm orange light was emitting. He drew closer, finding a short ladder leading down to more wood flooring, and gingerly made his way into the lighted belly of the ship.

"Lagging behind, Potter?" Snape sarcastically addressed him. His voice sounded loud in the cramped space.

Harry looked around in awe. The inside of the ship was pristine and comfortable, each curved wall lit by floating lanterns and covered with books. The shelves were so large and cumbersome that they curved over the ceiling as well, layers of tomes suspended above Harry's head as he wandered further. In the center of the cylindrical room were scattered tables, bolted to the floor, and enormous stacks of books, arranged in such an orderly way that they looked like patchwork walls.

Harry was so caught up in his surprise he forgot to be angry for a moment. "It's… a library," he murmured.

"Yet another astute observation from the _Boy Who Lived_ himself," Snape drawled, acerbic, eyes glued to the row of book titles he was perusing.

That time, he slanted a glare at the professor. "You could have mentioned not knowing how to swim was a moot point." When the man didn't respond, Harry continued, "In fact, you _also_ could have mentioned we were meant to take a dive off a cliff!"

Snape slid a tome from the shelf with one finger, cracking open the cover. Harry traversed the space between them, fury building. "Hey!" he shouted, slamming an open hand on the table. "Listen to me!"

The professor shot him a nasty look. " _Control_ yourself, Potter-"

"No!" he snapped. "If I wanted to be ignored, I would have just gone-" _To the Dursley's,_ he didn't say. Instead, he ground his teeth together.

But Snape derisively supplied, "To your summer home, perhaps? I seem to recall you being in _favor_ of the change."

" _Change?!_ " Harry was seized by a clipped, disbelieving laugh, placing both hands atop the table and resting his weight on the backs of his fingers. "Right, yeah. _That's_ what it was. Got it in one."

The professor evidently had nothing to say to that. Harry sighed, taking back in a steady breath to calm himself. Perhaps this would all go smoother if he took Snape's lead and pretended the other man was nothing more than a dirty patch of wall - unsightly, non-communicative, and best not acknowledged all around.

His eyes stuck on a peculiar object toward the center of the room. It was a pedestal, of a sort… It appeared to be made up entirely of branching coral, reaching upward to chest height. The pillar was irregular and intricate, a collection of polyps and fan-like protrusions, the shapes piled together like a collage. At the top, the mass of interwoven tendrils unraveled to expose a large glass brain, faintly glowing.

Having no desire to resist the impulse, he made his way over to it, examining the thing closely. The brain hummed, its light thrumming as he approached, beckoning. Harry looked over at Snape; the man had his back turned, attention elsewhere. _Good._

He reached out a hand, touching a single finger to the glass. For a moment, nothing happened, but just as he began to think it had been foolish to expect something significant to occur, a scroll of parchment zoomed toward him from the other end of the hull, unraveling itself just above the pedestal.

 _Telepathic Lexicon,_ the title at the top read. Intent, Harry leaned closer, and the brain's glow grew brighter, illuminating the page.

 _I see you've been wondering what this little invention of mine is for! The Telepathic Lexicon contains a record of everything in this library, and for what purpose each bit of information could be put to use. To begin your journey, simply do as you have already: lay a hand on the Lexicon, think of a question, and it will supply any information it can think of which might answer your question._

 _Take nothing with you when you leave. The contents of this library are disastrous, in the wrong hands._

 _Use wisely, my friends._

 _Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

Harry's eyebrows rose. Dumbledore… made this? Did that mean he was the one who had spelled the entire safehouse? Those five ward boundaries Snape had mentioned, the lighthouse, the hidden boat? The cat, even?

He was struck, not for the first time, by the yawning chasm between his abilities and that of the adults around him. Of course, the Headmaster wasn't the greatest wizard of their age for nothing, but the gap seemed impossibly wide, considering Harry was meant to beat Voldemort - a task which even someone as powerful as Dumbledore could not accomplish. With that in mind, how could he even hope to compete?

Hand shaking, he placed it atop the glass brain. The scroll folded up and zoomed away, replaced by a single book, and Harry took hold of it. _The Incomplete Biography of Grindelwald's Equal, by Edwin Sparrow._ Frowning, he opened the cover, peering curiously at the table of contents. A book entirely about Dumbledore's life wasn't quite what he'd been looking for, but it was nonetheless a topic of interest-

"What do you think you are doing?"

Snape had deigned to notice him. However, Harry was feeling vindictive; so, he didn't say a word, his gaze firmly placed on the pedestal before him. He placed a hand to the glass once more. _What is the cat?_ he thought, hoping the question wasn't too imprecise.

The book about Dumbledore flew back to its place, and this new question yielded several results, which flew over and lined themselves up for his perusal. Several he could identify as answering a much broader question than he'd meant to ask, such as _Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Felines_ and _100 Pages of Kittens in Teacups_. Since his hand was still on the pedestal, the moment he determined a book wasn't needed, it left the lineup to go back to its place.

Just as he was narrowing it down to the more relevant texts, Snape's voice accosted him again. "Potter," he seethed, the name like poison on his lips, " _What_ do you think you are _doing?_ "

Harry went on with his business as if the man hadn't spoken at all. Served him right, didn't it? For putting Harry through hell? Maybe it was stupid to provoke the beast like this, but any opportunity to give as good as he got was too tempting to pass up.

There was a tome before him, titled _Something Interesting, An Anthology of Obscure Sorcery_. Intrigued, he reached out a hand to take it, but the next moment, the soles of his shoes scraped against the wood panels as he was unceremoniously moved several meters away. His leg twinged. As the books all zoomed back to their places following Harry's removal, he cast his darkest glare in Snape's direction.

The older man looked livid. "This is a repository, not a playground-"

"Do I look like I'm 'playing'?" Harry lobbed back.

"Clearly, your stupidity knows no bounds," the professor snarled, "since you seem to think it wise to handle magical books while being entirely unable to use magic yourself."

"I'm not _unable!_ " was his heated counter. "I can handle _myself-!_ "

"- and in the process expose the location of a remote safehouse to the Ministry?" Snape broke in, mocking. "Brilliant idea, Potter."

Harry folded his arms. "Maybe if you bothered to tell me where we even _are,_ I could make more informed decisions!"

"The Calf of Man," the professor replied, his tone derisive. "I presume now that you are _well informed,_ you will refrain from disturbing magical artefacts in future."

"Like you care about artefacts," he spat, recalcitrant. "You just don't want me to disturb _you!_ "

Snape's lip curled.

A silence passed between them as they shared looks of contempt. Harry looked away first.

The professor returned to the table and Harry sighed, keeping himself rooted in place. Was this what the entire night was going to be like? Was this what _every_ mission was going to be like, for the rest of his Hogwarts career?

Was this… what Dumbledore wanted? For Harry to be tread on and beaten down by Snape? For Harry to feel like a waste of space and time, merely an obstruction to the _real_ Order members? Was this meant to be some sort of life lesson? Or was there no point to this at all, and it was merely an exercise in keeping Harry occupied, a way to forestall his complaints?

He was tired. So, _so_ tired. And rest was a long way off.

It didn't take long for boredom to set in, and with it came anger. Why should he be forced to stand around and do nothing? This entire day had been rubbish from start to finish! The last thing he needed was to be pushed around by Snape. Harry was _done._

With that thought in mind, he sauntered right back up to the glowing brain, placing his hand on it once more. Several tomes flew in his direction, their titles matching his mood perfectly: _Pulverize by Timothy Gorm_ , _Compendium of Revenge_ , and _Tricks & Traps for Troublesome Twats, _written by someone named Jane Withers.

This time, Snape's attention was drawn immediately. "Are you deaf as well as brainless, Potter?"

"Nope."

"Then step away from the Lexicon."

"I'm not touching the books," Harry slyly informed him. "So it doesn't matter."

Snape's glare was withering.

Harry turned back to the tomes hovering beside him. Wondering if he could simply use a mental command to open them, he tried it out-

"Potter."

The sound of his name in Snape's voice was grating. He wished he could unhear it.

" _Potter._ "

" _What?_ " Harry barked, hands clenching into fists as the books before him stayed stubbornly closed.

"Make yourself useful." This was said with the casual confidence of someone accustomed to obedience. From the corner of his eye, he saw Snape place a length of parchment atop the table, firmly pinning it in place with a finger. "These are the books I require."

Harry didn't bother moving; he wasn't particularly keen to be ordered about like a servant.

The professor was moving back toward the other papers he'd gathered when he added, "Unless you would prefer standing in place for the next hour."

His tone held all the dry sarcasm inherent to his tactics as a teacher. _Mince your leeches at once; unless it was your intention to douse your classmates in acid, in which case you may carry on._ Harry turned a look of disgust and hatred right at Snape, but the man's back faced him squarely, implacable.

"I thought I wasn't allowed to touch the books," he goaded. Snape infuriatingly didn't take the bait.

He kept up his stationary defiance for a minute more, but it became apparent that his silent protest simply wasn't going to work. Snape seemed entirely unperturbed, which was an irritation of itself, but more importantly, Harry couldn't stand to be so still, or so quiet. It very quickly began to drive him mad.

What began with a fidget led to a short round of pacing, which in turn, against his pride and better judgment, led him right up to the table to inspect the note Snape had indicated. It helped that the professor had turned away and no derisive sneers or triumphant smirks were directed at him. As the boat drifted sluggishly through placid sea, Harry's anger vanished, leaving behind a vacuum, an utter absence of feeling nearly as staggering as his fury had been.

Examining the list, it seemed only two books were required. _Cracks in the Fortress, by Augustyn Kowalczyk_ and _Haunting, by Red Alice_.

If there was any rhyme or reason to the arrangement of the bookshelves, he couldn't discern it. The first shelf he looked at was full of children's books which were so old that the spines were falling apart. The second was a grouping of plant-based handwritten notes sandwiched between some books about fine dining etiquette and recipes for self-icing cakes. Another housed travel guides for all sorts of places Harry had never heard of.

Surrounded by an endless array of knowledge, Harry quickly became overwhelmed. He cast a glance at the professor, who was then seated on a low stool, poring over several sheaves of paper, a monstrous stack of information at his side. Asking for help wasn't an option; the man was more likely to sabotage than assist. Besides, he wasn't keen on being berated for faltering on a task Snape had set him on in the first place.

Harry glared at the note in his hand. Snape had made it clear, time and again, that he counted Harry as nothing more than interference. But he _wasn't_. Or, at least, he didn't want to be. And if he was going to prove it, he needed to provide a tangible, undeniable contribution, else Snape would surely convince everyone in earshot that Harry's only talent was getting in the way. If he could do even this small thing… perhaps that would help change Dumbledore's mind about Harry's usefulness, if only a little.

And so, he started with the titles. _Haunting_ seemed likely to be related to ghosts and spirits. Easy enough. But _Cracks in the Fortress_ was trickier; it could be a book about war strategy, history, patching holes… any strange topic was fair game in a library curated by Albus Dumbledore.

However, Harry mused, Snape wouldn't be looking for a method to patch holes unless the ship they stood on happened to be sinking; he would be looking for books that contained pertinent information. And the most pressing issues the Order was facing were… Barty Crouch Jr. and the warding at Privet Drive.

That thought caused a shiver to ripple across his skin, but Harry tried his best to ignore it, making his way around the room to search for related texts. Harry's leg gave a sharp pang as he was rooting around and he did his best to keep his weight on the other foot. He found a section full of books about the undead, but could not find _Haunting_ among their number. Then, he found a section dedicated to warding, and it was there he paused.

The section was huge. The hundreds of books worth of material was surprising enough, but what Harry found even more astonishing was that, even though he did not spot the specific book he was looking for, there were five numbered texts by Augustyn Kowalczyk on the subject… and an empty slot in the center.

Harry grimaced, his ignited suspicions carrying him over to the opposite end of the professor's table. "You have the books already, don't you," he intoned, pairing his words with a hateful glower.

Snape spared him the barest of glances. "What is it that drew you to that conclusion?"

" _Cracks in the Fortress_ is part of a collection," Harry emphasized, "and it's _mysteriously_ missing one installment."

"Mysterious, indeed," the man replied with feigned surprise. "Perhaps you should investigate this conundrum further."

It came to Harry with bright clarity that Snape had set him on this empty task just to keep him out of the way; it was a diversion, and nothing more.

"You've had them since before I got here," he concluded, his voice gone hollow. "This was your plan from the start."

Snape stared at him, saying nothing. That was confirmation enough.

Harry fixed his eyes on the wood grain of the table. "You don't even need them, do you?"

"On the contrary, I do," the professor admitted in a voice so neutral that Harry squinted at him suspiciously.

"You're not even looking at them," Harry accused.

"Official documents from the Ministry require a great deal more time to sift through," he explained, setting the tips of his fingers atop a stack of pages for emphasis. "Books generally have the good grace to provide a table of contents."

Off-kilter, Harry's gaze traveled across the array. "What do you need Ministry documents for?" he ventured, cautious.

"These records detail the circumstances of one Bartemius Crouch Jr.'s repossession and incarceration on the twenty-seventh of June, nineteen ninety four."

Harry was surprised, not only to receive a real answer for once, but by the substance of it. "Er… repossession?"

"Of his soul," Snape elaborated, candlelight barely illuminating his dark eyes. "The Ministry's attempt at fashioning the grotesque Dementor's Kiss into something more palatable to its benefactors."

He couldn't help but shiver in response. "Right."

"According to these documents," the professor supplied, "the young Mr. Crouch was divested of his soul and left to rot in Azkaban. It is widely rumored that soulless persons are unable to perform even the most basic functions for survival and, as such, their bodies die shortly thereafter."

"Guess that rumor is rubbish, then."

"Not necessarily," Snape remarked, pulling a leather bound book from one of his stacks. Harry's lips twisted in irritation when he caught a glimpse of the cover: _Haunting by Red Alice_.

He opened to a chapter in the middle. "This journal contains research conducted by a purveyor of illegal potion ingredients. She was, for a time, interested in the trade of human parts."

Harry grimaced. "Lovely."

"In this account, she details a time in which she came into possession of a soulless man by purchasing the body from an employee who worked at Azkaban," Snape continued, seeming fully in the midst of a macabre lecture. "The Ministry does not keep further record of those people without souls, as they are considered effectively deceased, and she was thus able to acquire the body with relative ease."

"Wait, there are people who _work_ at Azkaban?" Harry questioned with a frown.

Snape stared at him, and Harry inwardly cringed, awaiting a cutting remark. However, oddly, it did not come. "You in fact are already acquainted with someone who has," the man pointed out, tone dry. "Though it comes as no surprise someone like Arthur Weasley would not mention it."

"What?" Harry choked out. "Mr. Weasley worked at _Azkaban?!_ "

"Yes," Snape confirmed, disinterested.

"Why-?"

"I suspect you will have to ask him yourself," the professor interrupted. Harry fell silent, his unease returning.

Snape turned a page in the book before continuing: "When this woman received the body, she discovered that, while it was lacking a mind and will of its own, it did, in fact, still possess automatic function. Its heart still beat, its lungs drew breath, and it could yet process food and drink, despite being unable to nourish itself."

Remembering what Croft had said, Harry ventured, "She spelled it into the stomach?"

"Quite," Snape replied, an eyebrow raised. "In effect, this specimen she had procured was an unprecedented boon to her business. A human form without a human inside, but still invariably alive… It was harvestable for decades, regenerated repeatedly with potions until her greed brought about the body's eventual demise. Had she been more careful, it likely could have subsisted long into old age."

"So…" Harry's brow crinkled. "What you're saying is, even though Barty Crouch Jr. doesn't have a soul, someone could be keeping his body alive to… I don't know, use it for Polyjuice? Like what happened to Moody?"

"Presumably," the professor remarked, closing the book with a dusty thud. "The Headmaster ruled out the possibility of his being reanimated in some fashion. Inferi are debatably intelligent, but not perfect recreations, and zombies are much like the soulless bodies Dementor's leave behind- nothing more than the shape of a person, lacking their mind."

"And he looks and acts like himself," Harry concluded, troubled.

Snape hummed an acknowledgement. "As for the matter of warding at Privet Drive," he commented, standing. "There is no such substantial documentation."

"Hm." He didn't want to talk about it. Not particularly eager to unpack his mixed feelings just then.

"There is, however, precedent for speculation."

Harry frowned. "Let me guess, it's all in the other book," he predicted, folding his arms over his chest.

The professor's expression was unreadable, but he said, "In truth, _Cracks in the Fortress_ has very little to say about blood bond wards, but its slim observations were nonetheless… interesting."

"Blood bond?" Harry questioned, the phrase feeling sort of unpleasant on his tongue.

"That is the brand of warding on your summer home," Snape informed him, each of his words precise. "It should come as no surprise that, considering the ward required a _death_ to commence, it is considered blood magic."

It made sense. Of course it did. He'd known for ages that he was being protected by his mother's sacrifice. But having it laid out like that, in such simple and detached terms… It made his skin crawl. "It's… isn't that like… _dark_ magic?"

"Yes," the professor confirmed.

"Dark magic is illegal," Harry recited, feeling strange having to state the obvious.

"The Dark Arts are illegal, but I imagine the Ministry would have a difficult time outlawing dark magic outright," Snape commented, an ironic edge to his tone.

"Why?"

The man rose an eyebrow. "They would have to arrest every magical child on the continent."

Harry spluttered, "What?!"

Snape seemed annoyed that he was belaboring this point, but explained, "Instinctive magic, or 'accidental magic' as it is known colloquially, is a subset of dark magic. And dark magic itself is generally defined as any magic with an unquantifiable element."

He frowned, still greatly confused. "What on Earth does that mean?"

"Joy and sadness, love and hate, the nebulous nature of the human soul," the man listed. "Those elements which produce strange magic that is neither wholly controllable nor understandable by logical means. By contrast, the Dark Arts are defined as the direct manipulation of those sacred elements, or an attempt to substitute them to produce similar results."

"So, because the wards weren't really made by, y'know, casting a spell or whatever, they're dark magic?" Harry ventured.

"There is plenty of common magic that does not require foolish wand waving," came Snape's dry retort. "The blood bond is considered dark magic because it is unable to be understood- There is no possible way to replicate its effect in any consistent fashion."

Harry wondered why no one had ever thought to mention any of this to him. He supposed it wasn't strictly necessary to understand the situation, to know that his mother had died to protect him. But it seemed so much more… _momentous,_ knowing how mysteriously it had come about. Knowing how her love and magic had entwined, solidified into an impenetrable wall between him and those who wanted him dead.

No wonder wizards and witches alike were so fascinated by his survival. It had come on the coattails of some truly extraordinary magic.

After what must have been a prolonged silence, Snape cut into his thoughts. "Despite the strength and rarity of such protections, there is a known… loophole, of sorts."

Harry grimaced, his thoughts disrupted. "What-? Really? If there's a loophole, then why was it so important for me to stay in the wards all this time?!"

"All wards have loopholes," the man countered. "Just as all defenses have a weakness."

"Okay, _sure,_ " Harry conceded, his shoulders lifting with the force of his sigh. "But they're supposed to be- I don't know… the _best_ wards, right?"

"They are," Snape said, crisp. "That does not make them _infallible_."

"I know that," Harry insisted, though that was news to him. "So… what? What's the loophole?"

"The circumstances of blood bond wards are very clear," the professor began, "as they as are formed purely by instinctive magic, deeply rooted in the protection of the home in particular. However, those protections are simply meant to prevent the cruel and bloodthirsty from stepping foot on the property. If someone who meant no harm crossed the threshold, they would find the house quite bereft of additional fortifications."

That was a wonder, considering the Dursleys managed to enter that home _every day_ without problem. But Harry wasn't likely to make mention of _that_ to Snape.

"What, so anyone who just walks in the house can change the wards?" Harry balked. "How is that a 'little' loophole? Seems like a huge one to me!"

Snape's glare indicated he did not appreciate Harry's outburst. "The ward itself is of such unfathomable power that its workings cannot simply be _overwritten_ by random passers-by," the man informed him. "Any attempts to cast wards near it are often swallowed up by the infinite energy on which the blood bond sustains itself. It would take a wizard of _immense_ talent, and an iron will, to change anything at all."

"But you're saying… it would have to be someone who didn't mean any harm."

"Just because no harm was intended does not mean no harm has been done," the professor clarified. "But yes, it seems likely that our saboteur is at the very least acquainted with you."

"Well," Harry said, "maybe it was Mad-Eye Moody."

Snape's glare was withering. "I said immense talent, not drunken dexterity."

He wasn't sure what to make of that response, though the tone in which it was said put him on the defensive. "Well- it's not Dumbledore, obviously, and… and Moody made a point to give the Dursleys a scare last summer…"

"I highly doubt the man has ever cast a ward the whole of his life."

A thought struck Harry, then. A _brilliant_ one which tugged the grim tilt of his lips into a smile. "Remus," he breathed. "It has to be Remus!"

Snape's tone was as sour as Harry's was elated. "That is as baseless as it is absurd."

"No it isn't!" Harry argued. "Look- he was one of the ones who confronted the Dursleys at King's Cross, he doesn't mean me harm, and he's the warding expert for the Order-"

"That is a pity title, awarded to him for the simple fact that he lacks any other talent."

Harry couldn't possibly let that stand. "Remus was excellent at Defense! Without him, I never would have been able to cast a Patronus at all, much less-!" His words hitched in his throat, strangled as they were overcome by a searing, white-hot pain shooting up his leg. It was sharp; the sort of pain that grappled your attention and refused to let go. His body bent into a heavy lean onto the tabletop, papers crunching beneath his elbow, as he clenched his eyes shut, waiting, _hoping_ , for the ache to pass as it had so many times that night.

It refused.

His concentration was difficult to penetrate, but Snape managed it, his voice a loud bark nearby. "Potter?"

His tongue felt swollen. Eyelids fluttering open, the first thing to greet him was the harsh glare of the candlelight. It took a few moments of blinking before his vision cleared and he swallowed.

For what it was worth, the pain was ebbing. His leg felt hot, and it pulsed in a familiar, disconcerting way, like his heartbeat struggling underneath his muscles. It was just a spasm, and it would go away. He could deal with it.

"Nothing," he blurted out an answer to a question that wasn't asked, the words squirming out from his clenched throat. "It's fine, just-"

A shout surged from him, the force of it enough to break him apart. He didn't understand it. He'd just tried to shift his weight to his other leg and-

His knees buckled under his weight. Losing his balance entirely, he crashed to the rotted floor, the pain unbelievable as his leg reignited with the fall. In a haze, he felt a presence beside him, hovering close by. A harsh _Lumos_ bathed the floorboards with light, but it was a single, sharp word which roused him. "Where?"

Harry squinted hard, putting a hand over his eyes to protect them from the sudden brightness. "It's _fine,_ just give me a-"

" _Where?_ " the professor snapped, his voice grown further severe.

Too tense to argue, Harry pointed to his leg, keeping his sweat-slicked forehead in his hand. He hardly paid attention to what Snape was doing, Harry's breathing loud in his own ears. Now that he was still once more, the pain was dimming again, but he wasn't stupid. He wasn't about to try moving around again.

"Potter…" His name sounded like a warning.

Harry took his hand away from his eyes, looking down. He wished he hadn't. His leg existed as one long bruise, worse than it had been before, but the flow of blood reached an apex just underneath his knee; a piece of bone, splintered and jagged, tented a large patch of his skin as it attempted to break free. The white protrusion peeked out, wearing his skin as a cloak as it tore through, streaks of blood sweating from its crown. Worse, there were other parts of his calf that were uneven and bumpy, showing through under the impossible amounts of inflammation, threatening to do the same.

Snape, in his crouched position beside him, looked murderous.

"What?" Harry questioned weakly, feigning ignorance. He had a suspicion that he knew the exact source of the problem.

The professor's eyes narrowed. "I know what an overdose of Bone Restorative looks like, you imbecile."

Admitting he had purposely taken it would also mean an admission of lying and thievery. He didn't want it to get back to Croft, and he certainly didn't want to be barred from future Order activities because of it.

"Maybe Madam Pomfrey made a mistake," Harry commented, staring at the wound.

"She is not the type to miscalculate," was the man's counter.

"She's still _human_."

"Something tells me her story is likely to differ from yours."

Harry pulled in a harsh breath as the bit of bone stretched against his flesh when he flexed his toes. "Why do you care?" he challenged through gritted teeth. "I'll deal with it. It's-"

The sight of his mangled bone was upsetting, but the smell of blood was _nauseating_. Harry wouldn't normally react that terribly to something so small, but he'd felt frayed at the edges already, even before he'd done in his leg.

"That wound requires immediate attention-" When Harry opened his mouth to cut in, Snape qualified: "- from a _professional,_ not an arrogant _child_."

"I'm not being _arrogant-_ "

"Refusing a healer when your bones are growing out of your skin is foolhardy and, yes, _arrogant,_ Potter-"

"Fine!" Harry erupted, "I'll go to the stupid healer! Happy now?!"

"Not in the least," Snape's retort rode on a sneer.

Harry grasped hold of the table beside him, muscles in his arms straining as he lifted himself up, all his weight on his uninjured leg. The effort drew a pained grunt from him, and he wobbled on his tired, heavy limbs.

"What are you doing?" the professor snapped, impatient.

"Leaving, _obviously,_ " Harry shot back.

"That does not require you to stand."

"Yeah, well-"

"Potter, cease this pitiful endeavor _at once,_ before you injure yourself further!"

He grit his teeth, frustrated. Humiliated. Afraid. Agonized. _Exhausted_. It was too bad he wasn't the sort to give up; his life might have been a lot easier if he was.

Harry finally raised himself atop one leg, the muscles in his arms protesting as he steadied. "Alright, how do we get out of-?"

A loud meow sounded behind him, giving him such a start that he nearly lost his balance again. The bloody cat was back at it. Harry knew it was probably a masterpiece of magic, but all he could really feel about it was creeped out.

"The guide will allow Disapparition," Snape commented, still sounding annoyed.

"Great," Harry grunted. "What's that going to do to my leg?"

"Other than what you have done already?"

He shot a look at the man. "I didn't do anything."

"I highly doubt that."

"Not my problem," was Harry's waspish retort, the pain further weakening his already questionable control of his mouth. "So? We going or what?"

Snape let out a breath through his considerable nose before flicking his wand, returning all the books and papers he'd amassed to their places. Harry closed his eyes again, his head feeling heavy and unwieldy on the precarious perch of his neck. He felt rather than heard Snape's approach, as if even the air around the man was repulsed by him.

The candles guttered right before they left, and Harry thought he heard a plaintive meow follow them to Grimmauld Place.

••••••••••

Fortunately, when they arrived in the dismal sitting room, there was no cat to be seen. _Un_ fortunately, Harry's leg exploded with another throb of agony from the Apparition. Putting a hand over his mouth, he suppressed a shout, leaning against the back of the sofa.

When he managed to recover, still miraculously standing, he saw Snape in profile, standing sentry beside the fire. His shrewd eye landed on Harry, an order coming swiftly after: " _Sit._ "

Mind in a haze, he did as he was told. The sofa was hard and creaky, and Harry fidgeted, nervous. "Um, before we go back to Hogwarts-"

"We are not returning until your leg is sorted," the man declared, tucking his wand away in his robe.

Surprised, Harry said, "I thought I would go back to Madam Pomfrey?"

"This is out of her purview," Snape remarked. "I have sent for the Order medic, who should arrive presently."

Order medic? _Who?_ He'd spent weeks at Grimmauld Place, watching members come and go, and he'd never heard of anyone among their number who was a healer! In fact, if he were asked to make a guess, he'd have pegged Madam Pomfrey, but evidently that wasn't correct.

His eyes locked on the Floo, waiting for the tell-tale flare to illuminate the space. However, the hollow rumbling of footsteps commanded his attention. His gaze drawn to the hallway, Harry leaned forward with anticipation to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger but, no sooner had he done so then the nearby grandfather clock burst open, the sound so sudden and loud that Harry had taken an alarmed hold of his wand. Hinges rattling, he saw a lithe old woman step out of it, brushing dust from her shoulders with an expression of distaste.

"This best be debilitating, Severus." Her German accent was stark as she addressed the man, brushing off the dark leather bag she was carrying. "I still have intake paperwork to finish."

The woman straightened herself, closing the portal she'd come through behind her, and Harry got a proper look for the first time. Clad in green, collared robes, cinched at the waist with a belted sash, she looked just as all the other healers Harry had ever seen, except for the large silver pin below her shoulder in the shape of a salamander. She was older, certainly, with a weathered, flyaway pixie cut composed of greyscale curls; perhaps a tad younger than Professor McGonagall, but not by much. And her features, while not particularly unusual or malevolent, still struck Harry as imposing and severe. Her wide, sharp almond-shaped eyes peered about the space, assessing, and the sight of it made him feel a bit nervous, like she might reprimand him at any moment.

Snape answered her with a scowl. "See for yourself," he instructed, arms folding.

He felt like flinching when she approached, but she didn't touch him. Moreover, she didn't even bend down to examine him. Her eyes drew to the problem area in a manner distinctly practiced, before she scowled, accosting the professor with a derisive: "Is this a joke?"

Snape glared at her.

"You bring me out here for this obvious diagnosis?" she scoffed. She began to turn away from them both, heading toward the clock. "You already know. Take him to the hospital."

"I am not asking for a diagnosis," the professor sneered.

The woman stopped, turning toward them again. "Take him to the _hospital_."

"I think you know that is not possible."

"No, I don't," the woman challenged him in a way Harry had rarely seen before. "I see no reason whatsoever to waste my time on him when he can easily and _properly_ be taken care of elsewhere."

"Albus was quite clear that Potter must not draw undue attention, or be publicly seen anywhere but the Hogwarts environs."

"Is that so," she uttered, deadpan.

Harry expected Snape to respond in kind, but instead his eyes settled on her, intractable. She was just as unmoving, her gaze boring into his with an energy that managed to feel both subdued and intense.

He couldn't say how long the two adults stood at an impasse before it was broken by movement.

" _You,_ " suddenly the woman was addressing Harry, her strides long as she crossed the room again, "lay on your back. Quickly."

He obeyed in haste and silence, cowed by the harsh staccato of her commands. The stressed beat of his heart accelerated further when she opened up her case, which contained an array of metal potion vials, a shrinkable broom tucked into a mesh pocket, and various odd contraptions he'd never seen before.

"What are you going to do?" he questioned her, tone strained.

"Fix this," was the woman's gruff reply as she roughly grappled Harry's leg. "Hold _still._ "

The urge to wriggle away was overwhelming; he had to fight against his muscles to keep them in place. There was something instinctual to his reactions that the situation didn't necessarily call for, he knew, but that didn't stop his anxious fidgeting, nor did it prevent goosepimples from creeping up his arms.

Her face was set on a grimace. "Did you give him a neutralizer?" she addressed Snape without looking at him.

The man snorted. "No, I don't keep obscure brews on hand."

"Then perhaps you should go _get_ one," she scathed, "so he doesn't get any more growths while I shave off the others."

"I hardly think-"

" _That's_ obvious," she cut in with a voice as smooth as silk. "Now, are you going to continue saying whatever fool thing comes to mind, or are you going to fetch the potion?"

Snape's expression was the epitome of vexed as he whirled on the spot, tossing a snappish chunk of Floo powder into the fire and disappearing a moment later. Harry's fear spiked, radiating through his limbs like a physical pain; he wouldn't have called Snape's presence _comforting,_ but it was at least familiar. Now, he was alone with a stranger. It felt like Lovelle all over again, except this time he hadn't remotely signed up for it.

"What d'you mean by 'shave off'?" Harry asked, his voice a horrified whisper.

"What I said," the woman asserted, impatient. With a wave of her wand, Harry felt an area around his thigh tighten, constricting around the entire upper portion of his leg. She drew the tip of her wand over the lower, swollen portion of his leg, and an image shimmered to existence above it. It looked like the spell Croft had used earlier in the day, but much more detailed. He could see it, then - the extent of the damage done. Gnarled bits of bone curled and grew, like tumors, along the length of original bone. It had more of the appearance of a root, curling tendrils hoisting themselves at all angles in search for escape. Harry swallowed.

"Had a whole second full dose, did you?" the woman predicted, her accent somehow thicker than it was before.

It was a moment before he found his voice again. "That's… er, how come it normally stops growing with one dose, but two does… _that?_ "

"It is just what happens," the woman told him, dismissive.

"What's a neutralizer?" He blurted the question as if he were grasping hold of a life preserver.

"It gets rid of the bone restorative still left in your system," she explained, "so that it won't continue to cause growths."

 _Finally,_ an actual answer. Harry let out a breath, slightly depressurized. "Um, can I ask who you are?" he inquired, subdued.

She didn't speak. Instead, her attention was drawn to the bag beside the sofa, where she reached in and grabbed a couple items. A silver plate, a towel…

Then, she glanced over her shoulder, scowling. "Where is that cursed _Nachtkrapp?_ "

As if she had summoned him, Snape emerged from the grate, wreathed with green flame and expression markedly foul.

" _Wenn man den Teufel nennt,_ " the woman murmured before throwing her arm out, expectant, to the man. "Here."

Snape passed it off with an aggressive flair, resuming his dark corner by the fireplace, his manner distinctly dismissive.

To Harry's surprise, the potion's taste was actually pleasant, the flavor a subtle caramel and nutmeg. However, it started up a brief, but intense, burning sensation in his leg. He winced, attempting to hand back the vial, but the medic was too occupied or, perhaps, too unconcerned.

"All right Mr. Potter," she finally addressed him after finishing her makeshift workstation. She turned to him and he noticed her unstop a second vial, the silvery sheen of the metal glinting in the firelight. She presented it to him, but, as he reached to grab it, her hand lifted to deter him. The expression on her face was truly unsettling; her previous severity paled in comparison.

"Do you understand what this is?" she asked him, pointed.

He'd taken enough of them to recognize them by smell alone. "A potion for pain."

Her nod was slight. " _Ja, sehr gut._ A potion for pain." Her gaze turned sharp. "But do you think you deserve it?"

For a moment, he thought he hadn't heard her correctly. "What?"

Her tongue laved over her bottom lip as the corners of her mouth upturned marginally in an amused smile. "You did a stupid thing here, boy. A very stupid thing. Do you think people should be rewarded for doing stupid things?"

His stomach dropped as he caught on to her meaning. Was it a test, or an act of cruelty? Perhaps she wasn't a medic for the Order at all; he certainly couldn't trust Snape's word on the matter.

If he was to be punished, so be it, but he still wouldn't say a word to confirm Snape's suspicions.

"I didn't do anything," he doubled down on his lie, the words falling from his mouth, automatic.

Her fingers curled around the bottle, the plummet of her hand falling in time with the frown that pulled at her mouth. "That is not what I asked."

"So?" Harry replied, belligerent, turning away from her piercing stare.

He could feel her eyes raking over him; it made his skin crawl. "Everything in this Mediwizard's Satchel belongs to St. Mungo's, which, in turn, is overseen by the British Ministry. This vial- _each drop_ must be accounted for," she explained, each word exact. "And with the consideration that I cannot give the _actual_ reason for its usage - Mr. Potter, if you cannot be honest to me, why should I lie for you?"

Harry had no reply. What could he say? Unbidden, his gaze flicked to Snape, his mind going back to the sacrifices which Order members were forced to make. It wasn't just Aurors, was it? All kinds of people were breaking rules and bending truth, risking everything to combat the greatest evil of their time.

And here was Harry, a child playing at adulthood. Just as Snape had said.

Harry's unfocused eyes landed on his exposed wound, listless and resigned. "Get on with it, then," he murmured, folding his arms.

The sound of the vial colliding with the silver tray clattered beside him. The woman, when she shifted, gripped her wand tightly in her hand and perched over his leg like a scavenger on carrion.

He waited for some sort of warning. A sign to brace himself. Eyes trained to the hard lines of her face in anticipation, Harry waited.

Instead, focused on the image floating just above his knee, the woman made a large swipe across the air with her wand. With it, he felt the sickening pull of something jerking inside his calf, then the scorching pain that erupted as something _else_ dislodged. He immediately flinched back, legs instinctively curling inward.

"Hold _still,_ " she warned, pulling him back into position.

He tensed, but regretted it; his leg ached in protest. Harry grit his teeth against the woman's harsh treatment, but said nothing.

Again, his stare sought Snape, who was faced toward the window, hands clasped behind his back, and surveying the wall hangings with a look of profound boredom. Harry knew he would receive no sympathy from that quarter, and perhaps it was for the best that Snape's ire wasn't directed his way, but it still stung to be entirely ignored.

He heard another clatter on the tray. Eyes drawn there, Harry had the revolting sight of a large chunk of his bone, covered in blood and strips of muscle, seared into his mind. He looked away quickly, dread churning his stomach.

It continued on like that, twelve more times. He couldn't say why he'd started counting, other than a means to distract himself from the pain. His delirium mounted with each shard of bone that collected on the tray, until the sizable pile weighed down his resilience to its breaking point.

The agony had dulled to a molten thrum; he couldn't focus well enough to remember how much it hurt.

And somewhere in that in-between, he felt the smooth neck of a bottle press urgently up against his lips, strong hands tilting his head back and forcing him to swallow.

How long it took to rouse him back to consciousness after the pain began to ebb, he couldn't say, though it was just in time to observe the medic's arduous wandwork as she started in on a more intricate task. Sweat accumulated on her brow as she worked her arm in a sawing motion, her eyes peeled to the image as she sanded down one of the leftover knolls of bone. The magic crackled with every swipe.

Her sculpting took what felt like hours. His leg was limp and useless against her hand as the woman sat back on the floor and let out a breath.

" _Endlich,_ " she announced, breathless.

Harry's voice sounded dull to his own ears. "S'it over?"

Her answer was nothing more than a grunt as she leaned forward, wiping the sweat on her temples on her sleeve as she went to banish the bone fragments on the tray. Moments after, she examined his leg again, twisting it in her hands to get a look at it from all angles.

"How does it feel?" she prompted. "When I move it, do you feel anything sharp? Tearing?"

He shook his head, the motion slow and meandering.

"Good," she sighed. "Keep off it for a few days. The muscle needs to heal. Ask the school matron to provide tissue and blood replenisher. After the pain is bearable make sure to walk on it often to exercise it. _Verstanden?_ "

"Yeah." He didn't look at her.

He heard her murmur a spell and observed as the open wound on his leg stitched closed, seamless. Afterwards, he heard her shuffle around as she gathered her things back into her bag. The air shifted as she rose to her feet with cracking joints and a tired exhale; her next words were directed elsewhere. "You have it from here, Severus?"

"Of course."

Harry drew his knees up to his chest, propping his chin against the uninjured one. There was no pain, but he did feel a touch nauseous, his face hot and flushed.

She appeared distracted with organizing her pack, but she addressed the professor again, off-handed. "Ah, I was going to let you know tomorrow, but I will have that sample you asked for by Friday."

Snape's tone was supercilious. "You realize time is an object, for this research-"

"No, _of course_ I wouldn't," the woman droned on, sardonic. Then, more seriously, she added: "This was the soonest I could _find_ one. If you knew anything about how hard these things are to track down-"

"I am _aware,_ " he snapped, impatient. "Very well. Friday, then, Tenenbaum."

"Tenenbaum…?" Harry found himself echoing the word, curiosity piercing through his hazy consciousness.

The two adults, surprised to hear him speak, looked his way. The woman's eyebrow raised. "Yes. Wil Tenenbaum."

It was uncanny, now that she mentioned it, how much she looked like the Defense professor. Her features were just as minute, just as strict, just as distinctly pretty. Their principle difference was that the Professor Tenenbaum knew how to smile.

"I know that name," he eventually supplied, vague.

Tenenbaum and Snape's expressions mirrored one another, both bewildered that Harry would share something so inane. They glanced at each other; Tenenbaum tilted her head.

"Friday," she repeated.

Snape's head jerked into a tight nod.

The woman turned to approach the clock; Harry's head dipped to watch her leave.

He spoke again, feeling like a passive observer to his clumsy probing. "Do you know someone named Bridgette-"

"Remember," she interjected, glancing over her shoulder. "Let it heal. I do not want to see you again."

She was grinning; it was a bit offset on her face. Not at all friendly, but cordial enough to shut him up. Harry nodded.

He could see the blood on her arms - _his_ blood - when she reached up to turn the hands on the grandfather clock to 9:25. Even her wristwatch was coated with it, her sleeve peeling away from it, sticky. Harry observed as she bowed her svelte frame into the clock's body, shutting the door behind her with a spectacular _clack._

Snape half-turned toward the fireplace. "Come," the professor ordered, off-hand.

Harry's exhaustion was bone-deep, but more than that, he just felt… concave. Like it wasn't just his bone scraped away, but the rest of him with it. The effort to keep his eyes open was tremendous, and the effort to hold up his torso was even worse.

He knew he should just leave with Snape, endure Pomfrey's scolding without complaint, and get some rest as he'd been instructed.

 _But._

"Professor," he addressed Snape, holding his voice steady as he slid his legs off the sofa. "I can't go yet. There's something I need to do."

The man shot him an impatient look, not pausing for a second in his movement to take hold of the Floo powder. "You are delirious."

" _No,_ I'm-" Harry took in a calming breath. "It won't take long, I swear."

"Not yet reached your quota for time wasted, Potter?" he questioned, scathing.

His lips twisted as he stood up, his balance shaky but holding. "Just five minutes. That's all I need, and I'll come right back."

The professor fixed him with an unblinking stare. "You have just undergone a crude medical procedure to rectify a potion overdose exacerbated by both time and Apparition. You will return to Hogwarts and _stay put_ in the infirmary, as you should have done to begin with."

"I _will,_ " Harry stressed, already putting tentative distance between himself and the professor, "in five minutes."

"I believe you are laboring under the misapprehension that this is a _negotiation._ " Snape's glare was full of warning, hand poised over the powder box on the mantelpiece. "It is _not._ "

Harry shook his head. " _Please,_ " he insisted, his voice and knees wavering as he backed away. His leg felt like a hunk of limestone, heavy but brittle, ready to crumble at the slightest provocation.

However, his determination did not waver. "I need to do something. It's important."

"What could _possibly_ -"

When he reached the door frame, Harry stopped listening, Snape's voice becoming a blurry backdrop to the creaking joints of Grimmauld Place; he fancied that he could hear even the minuscule sounds of dust accumulating on windowsills, the steady drip of the faucet in the downstairs bathroom, the shift of stagnant air as it parted to allow him passage.

There was a fuzziness to his processes, a sluggishness to his movements. He knew he was in a bad way, but so long as he was conscious, he'd crawl to his destination if he had to.

Harry had dreaded climbing stairs earlier in the day, but at that moment the task was so inconsequential that he had reached the top step before realizing he'd moved at all. Once he got there, though, it was a different story. There was a hesitancy to his gait as he crept forward, navigating the corridor with care. The dark walls surrounding him were claustrophobic, looming. He wasn't even technically sure he was going the right way, but, when he reached the end, it was immediately evident that his guess had been correct.

The door to his left was slightly ajar, as if the owner of the room had merely popped out for a midnight snack. Harry knew better, though. The thick silence which permeated the house belied any perceived signs of life, no matter how badly he wished for them.

He pushed open the door.

Coming to this room had previously been unnecessary; its sole inhabitant had only rarely used it to sleep. It was surprisingly sparse, the only furniture a single twin bed, the dark sheets bunched up at the foot as if they'd only just been thrown off. The air smelled a touch sour, like dog's breath, and there were a few random piles of rubbish strewn about. On the walls hung several old posters of a Quidditch team floating majestically over a World Cup pitch, still images of girls posing suggestively on motorbikes, and a large strip of red-and-gold cloth draped unevenly across the wall behind the bed.

It was all so quintessentially _Sirius_ that Harry had to momentarily close his eyes against the wave of longing that surged in his gut. Settling for staring at the floor, he moved to take hold of the end of the bedspread, worrying at the fabric absentmindedly. Harry didn't quite know how to feel, nor did he really understand why he'd been so dead set on coming… Now that he was actually there, he felt a bit queasy. His presence was a disturbance - he felt as if he were intruding somehow.

Shaking off the thought, Harry's gaze caught on the wall beside him, where the fabric was hanging. There appeared to be something hidden underneath, the corner sticking out of the edge of the drapery. Without giving it a second thought, he took hold of the fabric, shifting it away to reveal… a huge, messy collage of notes and moving photos. Harry realized, with shock, that the notes were written by various Marauders, the four separate writing styles interspersed with enchanted drawings and paper tricks.

He peeled the fabric back further, cautious, as if a single hasty move might disturb the tableau. One note protruding from the wall nearby was shaped like a pair of bird wings, except one side was fluttering frantically, noiselessly, in the air, and the other was inert, flat against the wood as if it had been glued on. Harry reached out, taking hold of the end of the parchment; every bit of it was covered in writing, the ink a touch faded with age. And there were tons of them littered across the wood surface, all bearing silly catchphrases or bombastic announcements about school, summer vacation, girls, or their "monthly outings".

Between those mementos were photographs. The first one Harry spotted was a snapshot of his father and Sirius blowing gum bubbles the size of their heads, the fierce competition ending with uproarious laughter and their hair and faces covered with splattered candy. The second was of his mother playing Gobstones with the group, chin in her hand as she considered her next move, and Sirius holding up two fingers behind her head as if they were rabbit ears, offering a playful wink at the camera. Another was of a young Remus sitting on the ground, yawning at the spine of his open book before noticing whoever was taking the photo and offering up a bashful smirk. Then, he turned gingerly away from the camera, a small breeze kicking up his wispy hair and a smattering of dead leaves beside him. Harry's heart gave an awful lurch at the sight; he missed Remus terribly, but now wasn't the time, he reminded himself. This day was for Sirius.

His eyes drifted to another and stopped. Everyone was together in that one, his mum and dad, Remus, Sirius… even Peter, Harry realized with a start. They were all smiling, laughing. His father was seated on an unfamiliar sofa, arm laid behind his mother's shoulders, the former saying something excitedly while the latter rolled her eyes at the lot. Remus was doubled over in his seat as he choked on his drink, expression brimming with mirth, Peter patting him lightly on the back and chortling himself.

And Sirius. He was standing on top of a table, swinging a tie around above his head and dressed up nicer than Harry had ever seen him. His motions were expansive and languid, looking absolutely sloshed, regaling his friends with a story that Harry would never get to hear.

The pressure in his chest grew to astronomical proportions, to the point where it actually felt hard to breathe. He let go of the draped fabric, turning away quickly, unable to look at the rest. Five minutes, he'd told Snape; he didn't have time to unravel the mass of feeling that was threatening to crush him.

He took in a shaky breath, the bed springs squealing in protest as he sat on the very edge of the mattress. Harry felt as if he'd swallowed a large, sharp rock, and it had settled painfully behind his sternum. He'd known thinking about Sirius would be hard, but… not this much. He probably shouldn't have come.

There was dust on the floor, Harry observed inanely. Sirius had likely ordered Kreacher to stay away ages back, and no one had disturbed the place for months. It was odd, though… There were thin scratches in the wood leading toward the closet, weaving together in a well-worn path. Harry drew himself forward, compelled by… Curiosity? Dread? The need for a distraction? He couldn't be sure. All he knew was, when he cracked open the door to the walk-in closet and lit his wand to see, he regretted it.

The inside was small and devoid of anything one might expect to find in a closet. No clothes hanging, no shoes or scarves, not much of anything closet-like at all. On the floor was a nest of several tattered pillows, covered in short, dark fur and cobwebs. Beside that was a ceramic bowl filled with three candles that had begun to melt together, a few quills, several of which were broken, and what appeared to be the half-chewed leg of one of the dining room chairs.

Had Sirius been… _sleeping_ in there? The resemblance to Harry's cupboard as a child was uncanny. The space was cramped but, in dog form, perhaps Sirius would have fit. Still, it disturbed him to think of his godfather spending dark, solitary nights shut up in a closet. As the lighted end of his wand passed around the space, he could see deep, jagged scratches on the walls. In the back corner, there was a rumpled leather jacket, one that Harry had seen Sirius wear constantly and, secured to the wall just above it, was a small rectangular mirror.

His throat tightened; it was the same as the one Sirius had given to him last Christmas. The one Harry had shattered beyond repair. The one that might have saved Sirius' life, had Harry only thought to use it sooner.

The pressure in his head and chest increased tenfold. Harry sank to the floor, arms folded tight over his chest as if to shield it. Knees on the wood, he bent over to lay his forehead on the dirty pillows, willing his lungs to take in air normally. His blood pounded in his ears.

Sirius had kept the mirror by his side the whole time, hadn't he? Waiting for Harry to call. Waiting for some kind of contact from the outside world. Because that was just it, wasn't it? Hadn't he seen how happy Sirius had been to have visitors over Christmas? Hadn't he noticed his godfather's awful dejection as their time had drawn to a close? Yet, with all that was going on, he had hardly spared a thought for Sirius, had hardly considered how terrible it must have been to be trapped in that dismal house for months and months. At least when Harry was at the Dursleys, he was able to leave sometimes. See the light of day.

But Sirius? He'd been forced to swap one prison for another, with no end in sight, no possibility of escape. His reasons for never using the mirror, his worry about being the catalyst for Sirius doing something reckless… It all seemed so foolish. The irony was biting; Sirius had done nothing wrong, while Harry's own recklessness had caused the tragedy.

In the end, wasn't it his fault that Sirius was dead?

The thought curled his shoulders inward, the pain of it far worse than his leg had been. A gravelly sob tore out of him, harsh as it shredded his defenses, and he struggled to reign in his grief. The pressure was unbearable, splintering his mind. He should never have come. Every memory of his godfather had etched themselves into the furniture, crammed themselves into every nook and cranny, burrowed themselves into the floorboards. His thoughts were too sickening to bear. He was so small and pitiful, so patently useless that Dumbledore had foisted him off on Snape indefinitely. His own weakness was likely to get everyone he cared about killed.

Perhaps it was an appropriate punishment, to be haunted by Sirius.

He was exhausted. He _hated_ himself. Harry drew in a sharp breath, his heartache reaching its apex, and _broke_.

The anguished noise he made sounded inhuman. As hard as he'd tried to contain himself, his despair crashed into him harder; his weeping was utterly uncontrollable, the tears piling up on the dusty floor of the closet. Wretched and alone, Harry could do nothing to stop his suffering; he tried to swallow his cries, but they burst from his throat, warped and jagged.

How long he stayed that way, paralyzed by the strength of his own misery, he couldn't say. But when he had finally wrestled his breathing into submission, Harry regained command of his muscles. Drained, he slowly sat back on his heels, swiping both hands across his face to dispel his tears, but they still ran freely, relentless.

Instead of continuing that fruitless venture, Harry crossed his arms over his chest, staring dazed at the dog hairs on the pillows. He didn't feel any better for his outburst. If anything, he just felt… numb. Lately, he'd been _so_ tired, but it was a new kind of tired the likes of which he'd never felt before. The kind which weighed down his limbs, slowed his breathing to a crawl, and filled his mind with wool. The kind that made him want to sink endlessly into nothingness, unmoving. He'd hardly slept for months.

His sigh was more involuntary than revitalizing, but it did rouse his faculties enough for him to remember the reason why he'd come. He couldn't forget its importance, no matter the circumstances. His arms dropped to his sides and he shifted to one side, taking his weight off his injured leg. Harry's trousers were covered in dust and grime, but he made no move to clean them off. Instead, he dragged a listless finger across the floorboards, tracing a cylindrical shape in the dust. At the top, he drew several straight lines, all in a row. He didn't quite know how many to do, so he just filled it in until there was no space left.

That done, he took a moment to wipe away the tears dripping off his chin with his sleeve. Sniffing, he whispered into the heavy air, "Happy Birthday, Sirius."

The room was cold and silent, raising the hairs on his arms. His voice cracked when he mumbled, "Make a wish."

His tears renewed their solemn march down his face and he closed his eyes, mouth twisting as he suppressed another sob. As lonely and desolate as the house felt, Sirius still deserved to be remembered. No matter how much it hurt, Harry vowed that he would never forget.

When the door to the room abruptly opened, the doorknob rattling with the force of the entry, Harry flinched, alarmed. " _Potter_ -"

Mortified, he turned away quickly, rubbing his face with his hands in a hasty bid to remove any evidence he'd been crying. Harry steeled himself, holding it as he awaited whatever malicious words Snape saw fit to spew at him.

However, it was quiet for several seconds. Was he not going to say anything? Did he expect Harry to-?

"Your five minutes have concluded."

Letting out his breath, Harry suspected that he'd been gone _far_ longer than five minutes. With that in mind, he finally looked at the man. Snape was stood in the doorway, his height even more imposing than usual due to Harry's position on the floor. Those black eyes of his were as menacing as they ever were. Everything about him still felt severe, exacting. And, despite being unable to read the man's expression, it seemed obvious that he understood the situation. Nothing seemed to get past him. _Ever._

So, why had his insults not arrived?

The professor's hand fell away from the doorknob as he turned back toward the hallway. "It is time to leave," was all he said.

Harry blinked as Snape fell out of sight, his footsteps echoing as he descended the stairs. No anger, no derision… It was unnerving, that complete lack of reaction. Shocked, Harry stayed in place for a minute more before he felt able to get to his feet and return to the drawing room as he'd been instructed, still braced for some sort of impact.

But it never came. No further words passed between them, and only the green blaze of the Floo marked their departure.


	10. Quality

This took much too long but! We thank you very much for your patience and we hope you enjoy this chapter. As well, Merry and I have decided to try something new. For those of you who are interested, we've made a tumblr where we will post periodic updates about how the newest chapter is coming along, along with possible previews (if people are interested), fic aesthetics, inspiration, etc.

The URL is available on AO3!

Coming Soon - Chapter 11: Reckoning

••••••••••

The evening of the third of November, she'd meant to show her parents her scrubs, but all Cleo saw was her father dressed up in his, hunched over and ragged as if he hadn't slept for days. He probably hadn't. He had other things to offer as well. The look in his eyes. The dreary slant to his mouth. The news.

She'd mulled it over a few times in her mind, turning it over, trying to help it settle. It continued to tumble.

"Did you hear me?"

"She's out," Cleo repeated, voice wrung out already. "Out, out." She looked down into her lap. "With Gabriel."

"I'm sorry, honey."

Her arms felt so tightly wound with how deep she buried her hands between her legs. It radiated to her shoulders, dictated the stiffness of her head shake. "You didn't do it."

He sounded a breath away from shattering. "He's still my grandson. He's still my responsibility."

"Mine, too," Cleo objected, glancing up. "And hers. So-"

"Are you okay?"

Such an inane question. She almost wanted to scream. _What do you think?_ She could feel the impulse, writhing in the pit of her stomach, thrumming outward in an ache. He expected an explosion. Anyone who knew her would've expected an explosion. But this seething was the result of a long, slow burn. A candle at the end of its wick. She'd spent her tantrums in early adolescence.

"No."

"I just don't want you to panic."

"I'm not." A harsh breath strangled her mouth into submission. Her voice cracked for the first time, brokering tears. She shook her head. "No point."

"I wanted-" He cleared his throat when his voice threatened tears as well, staring sternly at the floor for a few seconds more before he continued speaking. "I wanted to know what _you_ wanted to do. Because- because you know, it's up to you. Whatever you want done, I'll make it happen-"

The laugh that oozed from her was bitter as she leaned back in her chair, eyes going to the ceiling. "I don't know what I want to do."

"I love your mother very much," this poured from him, breathless, as he leaned toward the mirror in earnest, "but I love you more, okay? And I will do whatever it takes to protect you and Gabriel."

Her head swam. She didn't want to think about this. She didn't want this to even be a _thing._ But she couldn't run from it, could she? Not when someone else was depending on her?

It made her sick.

"What even happened?"

"It was stupid-" he broached, teeth gritting. "Just- my back was acting up. I went to go get a Percocet. I couldn't find the bottle anywhere and I- I just went to your mother, didn't even think about it. She didn't take it well."

Cleo slumped as she directed her eyes toward one of Dumbledore's overflowing bookshelves, looking without seeing. Her lips twisted. "Do you think she's using again?"

There was silence. A deliberation. The sound of a hand scratching the side of a face. A sigh, all hollowed out. "Yeah, Cleo. I do."

Cleo swallowed hard. "And I'm supposed to what, ask you to tell the police to throw her in jail? Alienate her more? Make this worse?"

"You're supposed to do whatever you think is best."

She looked at him. "What did _you_ think was best?"

"I don't know," he answered, strained. Then, after a moment, his mouth tightened and stretched, as if he were steeling himself. "Do you wish I'd done more for you?"

"No," she murmured. A lie.

"Gabriel is your boy," he told her. "So whatever you want for him-"

"I _want_ for him to not have to deal with this."

"I know," he smoothed over. "But that's what's happening right now-"

"I'm not an idiot," she objected, heated. "I _realize._ "

Her father frowned. "I know this isn't easy."

It took a moment for her to return to herself. She shook her head. "I'm sorry."

"If getting angry helps, then get angry," he advised, sincere. "Yell at me, even. It doesn't matter."

"It _does,_ " she insisted. "It won't help. I just want-"

When she faltered, he was patient. He waited as she breathed, her eyes tracking behind her eyelids as she sought for an answer. _Any_ answer. When enough time had passed, he prompted her with a gentle, "What, honey?"

"I just want her to get help," she confessed, her breath easing out of her so it wouldn't choke up into a sob. "For once, I just want her to get help and _stick to it_ and be the mother I _know_ she is."

He wrung his hands together. "Do you want me to wait, then?"

"I don't know," Cleo sighed. "I don't know if that's a good idea for Gabriel."

"She won't mistreat him," her father promised. "She never did that to you."

Another bitter, chagrined laugh rattled out of her like a cough. No, he wouldn't die, probably, and he wouldn't get hurt - maybe. But Gabriel would turn out like his mother, and that was the last thing Cleo ever wanted. That was what a parent was meant to do, wasn't it? Provide something better than what they'd had?

But maybe that was the pathetic inevitability of a child raising a child. There was never going to be a _good_ or _right_ way about this. Just wasn't in their cards.

"She was never gone with me more than a week," Cleo recounted, eyes glued to the ceiling. "So if she doesn't come home then, we should-"

She let that be; let the implication slump to the floor under the weight of everything it meant.

"Would you want to charge her?"

No. But maybe she should have. Maybe, at this juncture, it was the only way her mother would learn. Sure as hell didn't feel helpful in any sense, to just drive her to be everything she used to be, force her straight into the grave. But should she have placed the importance of _that_ above her own child?

She could only express the complexity of this feeling with a paltry, half-hearted shrug.

"If I got hold of her, would you want to talk to her?"

"I don't know."

"Cleo-"

"I'm _mad_ at her, Dad," she protested, her voice cracking again. Her face was flush with a pressure that convulsed against her eyelids. "She did this to my _son_ _._ Okay?"

He capitulated with a soft, "You're right."

"If she-" Cleo faltered, digging her nails into the insides of her thighs. "If she comes home- she has to go get help. Alright? She has to go to rehab, _immediately._ Inpatient. Everything. Just like last time. And- she has to stick with therapy. I don't care how much she likes Concordia - it's not a replacement for everything else that _she needs._ If she refuses, then I don't want Gabriel there. I'll come home-"

"Cleo, no," he opposed, brow furrowing. "You have to finish school."

"God- who _cares?_ " she exhaled, exasperated. "If Holly is going to be swanning off with my kid every single damn time you two have a fight with one another, then what the hell am I doing here? How am I protecting him from here? I don't care about being a witch, I don't care about finishing Hogwarts, I don't care about my stupid internship-!"

"Internship?"

She leaned back in her chair, pulling on the lime green robe on her body with distaste, wishing she could peel the stupid thing off. "Surprise."

"Oh, honey-"

Cleo waved a hand. She didn't want to hear it. It wasn't the first time her mother had ruined something, it wouldn't be the last.

"I'm proud of you," he tried again.

" _I'm_ coming home, if she refuses to get help."

"If it comes to that, then we can arrange for something else," he negotiated, crestfallen. "I'll take him to my parents-"

"No? _God_ no?"

"Cleo-"

"Like that would be any better? To be with people who wished he wasn't even here? As if they'd agree to even meet him in the first place? As if _I_ even want him exposed to that?"

"Then I'll quit my job," he asserted, firm. "I have enough in savings to last a few years. Could even explain to Dr. Greene that I need a sabbatical to take care of family matters. _I'll_ watch Gabriel."

"Dad, no. _No,_ you are _not_ quitting your job-"

She heard the dull, but loud, slap of her father's hands slamming on the table, the first show of a break in composure. " _You're_ not quitting school!" he barked. "I am _not_ letting you quit and throw your bloody life away just because Holly-"

His eyes closed into a full, horrible grimace.

Her father wasn't one to get angry. Ever. It shook Cleo to her core.

He choked down a gulp of air, as if resurfacing from a stint underwater. "You'd do anything for Gabriel, yeah?"

That went without saying, but she nodded anyway.

"I'd do anything for _you._ Is that understood?"

All Cleo could do was answer with a meek, "Yes."

He took a moment more to recover, but eased back into the conversation with a deliberately casual, "I'd have to take time off anyway if your mother agreed to go back into treatment."

She glanced down at her lap, shaking out another nod, this one much more helpless. Nervous.

"So, Gabriel will get taken care of either way. I don't want you to worry about it."

"I'm his mother," Cleo's voice peeked out, testing itself. She was surprised she could still speak. "I'm always going to worry."

Her father let out a breath, nowhere near strong enough to be a laugh, like he'd given up halfway through. "There's that."

Her voice gave up as well, her response coming out as no more than a hum.

"She'll come home," he said, though he sounded more like he was reassuring himself.

"And if she doesn't?"

His eyes widened, surprised by the bleak turn in the conversation. "Do you think that?"

"I don't know," she mumbled. "I didn't think she'd do this with my kid, I didn't think she'd ever relapse, so I can't really tell you what I expect of her right now."

The way he spoke to her was urgent, bordering on desperate. "You can't think like that. Or you _are_ going to stir yourself into a panic-"

"No, wouldn't want that," was her caustic rejoinder. "Wouldn't want _panic_ to get in the way of my Double Double, Toil and Trouble - wouldn't want it to keep me from turning needles into matches, or flying on broomsticks, or making sure I add eye of newt to my fucking _cauldron_ -"

"Cleo, c'mon now, that's not-"

"Because _that's_ what matters, right? That my panic doesn't get in the way of being _witchy_ while my _son_ is stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere in some seedy motel while his grandma is strung out on narcotics for the fifth time that _fucking_ day, doing only God knows what, maybe leaving him unattended with the door open or in the bathtub while the water is-"

Maybe the tantrums weren't quite done yet.

She forced the heels of her palms hard against her eyes until it hurt more than the churning in her stomach and head. It only took a few moments of deliberation before the floodgates completely opened.

Cleo heard her father let out a breath, as if he'd considered and decided against speaking.

What could he say, anyway? There were no proper answers. He was wise to let her sit in silence. To let her cry without having to speak. It was an ugly, proper cry. One that rattled with screams, one that hurt so badly that she felt close to passing out. It was the sort of sobbing that left her spent, unable to continue, although the misery still languished inside her, tumultuous.

It left her voice completely dead. "S-Sorry, I didn't think I'd-" She was glad that, for once, Dumbledore had left her with the privacy of her family.

"You needed that, I think."

Cleo's hands dived into her lap. Her father was a blur in the midst of artefacts still fluttering across her eyes from the loss of pressure. But she knew by the slump in his posture that he was as worn down as she was.

"I wish you wouldn't talk about it like that, you know."

Cleo sniffed hard, grimacing as a long line of moisture saturated the back of her hand when she wiped her nose. "What?"

"That side of you."

"Oh, Dad, _please_ -"

"You act like it's a joke," he averred. "Writin' it off like that - eye of newt nonsense. I know for a fact that if it were, you wouldn't have even considered going."

She swallowed a bit of syrupy breath back. "It feels like a joke when it comes between me and my kid."

"And I think you'd fare the same way even if you'd gone to uni here."

"If I went to uni _there,_ I wouldn't have had to leave Gabriel behind."

"And you wouldn't have left Gabriel behind were it not for something that really mattered to you."

She felt caught all of a sudden. It made her want to squirm. "But it's-"

"I remember, Cleo. I remember when that Scottish woman came to our home to give you your Hogwarts letter and explain the situation. I remember that look in your eye. But then-"

She knew where this was going and fast. "It's not about her."

"Isn't it, though?" he questioned. "The switch was so quick after that, Cleo. Just _one_ argument and you were ready to write it all off forever."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"I wish you would," he pressed. "Because I hate the way you talk about yourself. Cuts right to my heart. You act as if all _that_ is not even worth considering. Do you think she won't love you unless you do that?"

She shifted in her seat, looking away from the glass. "Dad, just- I don't want to."

"You don't have to choose. I wish you knew that."

"What I want doesn't matter," she shoved the change of subject between them, non-negotiable. "It shouldn't even be a consideration when it comes to Gabriel."

"How do you figure that?" her father questioned, incredulous.

"If I were any real mother-"

"Oh, you're a mother all right. Nothing hypothetical about it."

She leveled him with a look. _You know what I meant._

"Just useless is all," he continued. "Comparing yourself to this idea of a 'real mother.' There's no such thing. There are just parents who make their own decisions, good or bad. And yeah, Cleo. You've made some bad decisions. But you've made a lot of good ones, too."

" _Sure_ thing-"

"Do you think resenting him would be any better?" he proposed, catching the sarcasm in her voice. "If you gave up on something that really mattered to you?"

"I wouldn't _resent_ him!" she balked, disgusted. "I would _never_ feel that way about Gabriel-"

"But you wouldn't be happy. And children have a way of knowing when their parents aren't happy. And it makes _them_ miserable, too."

She felt like arguing, _I could find other ways to be happy,_ but there was no use in it. She was used to this, her father insisting that he understood what made her happy. Running on this idea that she would constantly _repress_ or _settle_ instead of doing what mattered to her.

If only he really understood that Gabriel was the only thing that could ever possibly matter and she would orient herself in a way that suited him best. _That_ brought her joy.

"Parenthood isn't all sacrifice," he divulged, linking his hands together. "Sometimes we make decisions that hurt now and help later. It's just how things go."

She couldn't help the thought that floated, unbidden, to the surface of her thoughts. _Do you think that because it helps you feel better about the decisions you made?_

There was no point in saying that either. Useless hostility. Not what either of them needed.

Her face was sore. She glanced over her shoulder before announcing, "I have to go to work." Not that she even wanted to go now. But what other choice did she have?

"Work?" He inquired, before his eyes widened with recognition. "Oh- Oh, the, uh-"

"Yeah."

"Night shift, huh?" He exhaled, forcing a smile. "I remember that. You, uh-"

"It's not getting in the way of school, no."

"Good. Okay, well-" His breath hitched in his throat. "I'll just hold the fort, I suppose. And I'll contact you the second I hear word about Gabriel."

"Okay."

"It'll be okay," he assured her. And himself, probably. "Have a good evening. I love you."

By then, she'd risen and pulled her bag over her shoulder, her returning "I love you, too" quiet and feeble as the image of her father faded from sight.

••••••••••

She'd nearly decided not to show up to the club meeting on Tuesday. The exhaustion was a convincing deterrent, though it was a spectre she was growing accustomed to shadowing her. It lived in the pervasive anxiety that seemed fit to linger as a backdrop to everything she did. Hovering, but not quite enough to debilitate and excuse her from the promises she kept, the responsibilities required of her, the deadlines that she had to meet.

So with troublesome intrusive thoughts strolling beside her, she went to make good on the promise she'd made to Hermione.

On arrival, she was greeted with… _quite_ a lot more people than expected. A patchwork collection of roughly thirty students, all hailing from different Houses, were in attendance, some faces familiar but most not. Surprisingly, she was not the only Slytherin representation, though that wasn't saying much… Ann Rochford stood tall amidst her gaggle of followers, imperious.

A polite tap on her shoulder prompted her to clear out from the doorway. As she was moving away, a familiar voice stopped her.

"Oh! Cleo!"

It was Jodie, standing at an angle to offset the weight of several large textbooks in her bag and wearing a large pink barrette to hold her bangs out of her eyes. "It's been a while!" she greeted, beaming.

"Jodie," Cleo quietly replied, forcing a smile of her own. Though, matching her energy seemed rather impossible. "Didn't know you'd be here."

"Oh, _yeah,_ " the third year lilted, lips tightening as her eyes drifted about the room. "Lance invited me."

She'd never heard that name before. "Lance?"

"He's my…" Her eyelashes fluttered momentarily, a nervous tick. "Friend. Haven't I told you about him?"

"Afraid I haven't had the pleasure," Cleo admitted. "It's not your fault. I've been pretty swamped. Has Potions gotten any better for you?"

The girl pulled a face momentarily before schooling her features. "Well, you know, I've still got a lot to learn."

"What section are you at?"

"Sensitive ingredients," she mentioned, depositing her bag on the ground with a relieved sigh. "We're handling fire seeds tomorrow."

"Oh, fun. Lessons that make Snape extra cantankerous. You must be excited," Cleo teased.

Jodie expelled a mirthless laugh. "I'm just glad Snape isn't teaching any Remedial Potions this year, or I'd be the crowned fool of Slytherin."

Cleo's head shook. "You're being too hard on yourself."

The girl's gaze swept across the room, as if she were searching for someone. Or, perhaps, verifying that nobody important was around. Her hands went to her hair, smoothing it down absentmindedly. "Do you think Rhys is going to be here?"

"I don't know," Cleo replied. "But it wouldn't surprise me."

"His girlfriend is here," she commented, going for a neutral tone and failing.

"Who?"

"Ann Rochford," Jodie supplied. "She's only a fifth year, but she's friends with loads of older students."

Cleo squinted. "Rhys is going out with _her?_ "

The girl canted her head. " _Yeah-_ didn't you see her wailing over him in the Entrance Hall at the demonstration?"

"I did, but..." Cleo twisted her lips. "Didn't really think a guy like Rhys would, y'know-"

Distracted, Jodie sighed, "Yeah… it's-" Her eyes fixed on a point across the room. "Oh! There's Lance and Erica!" She scooped up her bag again in a rush, her hastened departure completed with a well meaning but clumsy, "Nice talking to you, Cleo!"

Her voice petered out into a soft, "You too," underpinned by a small smile. It was nice, in an odd way, seeing that. Nostalgic. She could remember being that carefree. Vivacious. _Unburdened._

Her eyes fell into a heavy squint at the floor, insides clenching with guilt. Unburdened? Where had _that_ come from…?

She watched the number of occupants in the room grow to forty as a group of Ravenclaws shuffled in but, inexplicably, the noise level increased tenfold. Everyone about her was talking loudly, laughing, practicing spells, enjoying their company… even if the groups themselves seemed to be carefully sectioned off.

And Cleo couldn't help but feel the most sectioned off of all.

By the time Hermione arrived in the room, only a few minutes before seven, the sound levels had grown to full cacophony; the girl nearly dropped her mountain of papers, started as she was. Behind her trailed Harry, hands shoved in his pockets, and a few other Gryffindors Cleo had class with, but she couldn't remember their names.

Hermione tried to approach the podium directly, but was frequently hindered by misplaced students obstructing the way. When she finally arrived at her destination, she already looked tired but, after checking a quick _Tempus,_ she tried to address the gathered students: "All right, I think it's time to…"

No response. Cleo seemed to be the only one paying enough attention to notice her.

"Um, it's- it's seven o'clock-"

Hermione seemed to be having a hard time wrangling the crowd. The echoing room shifted her voice about, diluting it midair; no one paid her any mind.

Suddenly, Ann's high-pitched voice lifted above the other students, "Settle down, everyone! We're starting!" A hush radiated out from her circle of friends and spread to the group at large as they all took their seats.

"Right, ehm, thanks," Hermione murmured, clutching a book to her chest for security. "So, um. _Welcome_. This is the first meeting. For- for the Equal Academic Representation in Wizarding Institutions Group-"

Just as she'd managed to rattle that off, a Gryffindor from the crowd shouted, "Hear hear!" A low rumble of laughter rippled through the gathered students.

Hermione took in an unsteady breath; the interruption could either bolster her resolve, or further derail her momentum. Judging by her next words, it had been the latter.

"Okay." Awkward, she shifted under the weight of their gazes. "The ehm… the… Well, see, the ah, _reason_ I've brought you here-"

"I think we all know the purpose of the club," Ann cut in, amused. "It's in the title, isn't it?"

"Well- _yes_ , but-"

"Then let's talk action, right?" the girl continued, talking over Hermione as her protest fizzled out. Several other students were nodding, eager.

Hermione collected herself minutely, replying, "Yes, I- yes of course. I was just getting to that-"

"Oh! I know!" Ann exclaimed, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm. "Let's hear some ideas from everyone, and we can all decide together what our first plan of action will be!"

Harry spoke, then, from his place in the front row. "Why don't you let her speak instead of taking over, then?"

The girl tossed her brunette ponytail over her shoulder, leveling Harry an offended look. "What are you talking about? I'm only _trying_ to help out." At that, she pinned her gaze on Hermione. "I mean, you _were_ going to ask for ideas from everyone, weren't you?"

The Gryffindor shifted her weight, face as red as her house crest. "That um, I mean yes, of course I'd like to hear input, but I also-"

"Well that's _settled,_ then," Ann concluded with a note of finality. "It's not 'taking over' if I'm simply carrying out the original plan. Now, let's hear some ideas, hm? I have a few myself, but I think everyone should be able to share."

As if he'd been awaiting just such an opening, a Hufflepuff boy stepped forward out of the circle of students. "Hello all," he greeted the gathering, his posh accent only semi-familiar to Cleo. "My name is Justin Finch-Fletchley, for those of you with whom I've yet to make acquaintance."

A rumble of half-hearted acknowledgements and cleared throats passed through the audience. Cleo saw one of the other Hufflepuffs roll their eyes at the boy. He continued: "I am glad to see such a range of Houses represented in this gathering, and I for one think it's high time we all worked together in harmony to make Hogwarts a better place."

There was no response from the group, but Ann filled in the silence. "Very good, yes! That's what we like to hear, though of course that wasn't really an _idea_ , but- admirable enthusiasm!" Justin gingerly returned to his place as the girl ushered him away with a small, dismissive motion.

"Anyone else?" the girl asked, hands clasped behind her back.

A hand waved frantically in the air and Cleo quickly discerned that it belonged to the ever-bubbly Megan. "I just want to say that I am so excited to be here! This group is amazing!" she enthused. "I have so many fun ideas for activities!"

Ann's gaze had been expectant throughout, but she then prompted, "And those would be…?"

"Oh! Well, I think everyone else can probably think of something better," Megan qualified, playing with the ends of a tassel hanging from her school bag. "But it would be lovely if we could do really fun things together! Like painting a club banner, or making sweets, or- or _snowball fights-!_ "

A Ravenclaw boy picked up her enthusiasm. "What if instead of a banner, it was graffiti? We're making demands of this school, aren't we? We should use art as a form of protest."

Several students began talking at once in response.

"Is that really going to-?"

"- not everyone is _good_ at-"

"- don't think there's enough-"

"Vandalising the school isn't going to help anyone," Hermione found her voice to cut in, expression incredulous.

"It's not _vandalism,_ " Ann defended the boy. "It's sending a message. 'Proving we won't be ignored', as Rhys would say."

A Gryffindor girl with red hair spoke up. "Yeah, we 'won't be ignored', all right. We'll be in detention the rest of our lives!"

"Ginny is right," Hermione agreed. "It's important that we stay above-board-"

"When has 'above-board' ever gotten anyone anywhere?" Ann dismissed, waving a hand for good measure. "We'll take it into advisement, um…"

"Eddie Carmichael," the boy supplied, a prideful tilt to his chin.

"A pleasure," Ann intoned alongside a slow blink. Cleo's swift glance at Hermione showed that her eyes were directed at the ground, mouth closed in a thin line.

"We could have a dance," one of the younger Gryffindor girls said, blushing. "You know, like the Yule Ball. Some of us were too young to go before…"

Another girl, Hufflepuff that time, said, "I was thinking it might be nice to have an all-girls Quidditch match. The sport is so dominated by men-"

"- a culture festival, maybe? My dad is from Belgium and-"

"- should take out an ad in the Daily Prophet! It will look really favorable on-"

"- selling sweets, we did that once to raise money to fix up my uncle's shop-"

"- House-themed ice sculptures would look lovely out on the grounds-"

A parade of ideas streamed from the gathered assembly at a pace nearly impossible for Cleo to keep up with. One after the other, students of all ages raised their voices to contribute. It might have been hopeful and inspiring, if the mood were not so peculiar; despite all the enthusiasm of the group, Cleo felt the distinct sting of imbalanced power. Hermione was the one who, by rights, should have been in charge, but she remained at the podium, saying very little. Standing tall and poised at the front, commanding the spotlight, was Ann, who took each comment with a slight smile and a cue for the next.

After most of the students had had their say, one voice rose up from the center of the crowd following a short delay. "Hi, um, I had a thought," a Ravenclaw boy mentioned. "Since we've got quite a fair bit of people gathered, we could put on a play. To, you know, raise awareness."

Ann did her due diligence and expressed the same amount of support for this as she had all the ideas previous. Clasping her hands together in front of her, she replied, "That's a _marvelous_ idea-"

"Raise awareness for what?" This challenge was issued by an olive-skinned girl from the same House, her tone plainly irritated, but even keeled. "What has absolutely _any_ of this got to do with equality?"

The influence this had on the room was palpable; several people nodded along in agreement, while others looked worried, abashed, or disgruntled. The boy who had spoken before looked surprised. "Padma- I didn't mean- Well, there's all _sorts_ of plays about underdogs rising above their-"

"I'm not an _underdog,_ " the girl shot back. "I'm just tired of bigoted Slytherins calling me a _Paki_ under their breath!"

"Now, now," Ann's voice wedged itself into their argument. "Let's not resort to pointing fingers, hm? We don't all associate with _degenerates,_ you understand-"

"Hold on, Ann," Cleo stepped in, finally. "Let her talk. This sounds like a serious problem."

Padma glared at them both. "My sister and I have _Indian_ heritage, but we are _British;_ we've lived here the whole of our lives! And _some people-_ " Her narrowed gaze lingered on the Slytherins in the room. "- have really _disgusting_ attitudes that a handful of detentions aren't going to fix."

"There's always going to be some left-wrist wizards in _any_ House," Ann was quick to stress, her voice smooth, if a little frosty. "But, of course, this club is all about-"

"- not downplaying the concerns of others," Cleo finished for her, feeling her hackles rise for the first time. "So maybe you shouldn't monopolize the conversation when another student is raising very real concerns about racism shown toward her by her peers."

"And you shouldn't use wizardisms when you're addressing the room," Hermione put in, seeming to find some confidence in Ann's brief silence. "It's inaccessible to Muggleborns."

Ann's expression was a touch sour, but a Slytherin girl who looked close to Jodie's age spoke up. "This is a _club_. We're here to think of ideas, not listen to everyone's problems."

Cleo's eyes widened a tad. It struck her that the girl was much too young to be saying something like that. But, then again, such an immature outlook could only have come from someone so young. Maybe it was the tone of it-

"You think I'm some kind of _nag?_ " Padma objected, heated. "There's a huge problem with racism in this school, and how else will it change unless I say something? What else am I supposed to do? Stay silent?" Her voice brokered an accusation: _I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?_

And considering the current make-up of the room, she could hardly be blamed for thinking so.

"No one is saying that," Ann relented, hands raised primly at her elbows in surrender. "Mafalda, we need to be more _considerate_. Everyone here is welcome to share their thoughts."

Megan, who up until then had been looking quite troubled, remarked, "That is so sad, Padma! I never knew something really bad like that was happening! We should _do_ something!"

A sixth year Gryffindor girl with dark hair added her voice, "We should. It's more than race or blood, though. The bullying has really gotten out of control, and my girlfriend, Fay-"

" _Excuse_ me?" Padma interrupted at once, glaring at the pair of them. "How can you _say_ that?"

The girl looked genuinely perplexed. "What?"

" _Blatant racism_ is not the same as regular bullying!"

"No, I… It's not-"

Her girlfriend, presumably Fay, cut in, tone immediately aggressive. "Lay off! Scarlett _obviously_ wasn't saying that-!"

Justin interjected, "Let us remain civilized with each other-"

Padma let out a disdainful chuckle. "Civilized?! _You_ lot are the ones not taking me seriously-!"

Fay's answering gesture was full of frustrated energy. "Bit hard to when you won't even let her talk-!"

"Fay, stop!"

"- when she was just _agreeing_ with you!"

This was really starting to get out of hand. Many of the surrounding students looked deeply uncomfortable, but others were reacting more strongly to the tense atmosphere.

Another Ravenclaw boy tried to act as an intermediary. "Let's not fight; we should be working together-"

"Yes, definitely, Terry!" Megan agreed, now wringing her hands. "We're all here to help each other, right?"

Padma talked right over top of them both. "She didn't _agree_ with me _._ She immediately tried to clump the entire ordeal together as if it's all the same thing. It's _not._ When someone calls me a racial slur, that's _targeted._ It's not just a general bullying problem! How would you feel if I tried to dismiss homophobia directed at you and your girlfriend?"

Fay balked. "That's _different_ -!"

"No it isn't!" Padma yelled.

Ginny barged in, arms crossed. "Doesn't exactly help that some people in here are the exact same people _causing_ these problems." Her gaze was pointed toward Ann and her group, who could only manage to look scandalized at being singled out.

"It was only a joke…" Jane Atwater feebly excused, shuffling in place in the midst of Ann's circle of friends.

"Oh, some bloody joke!" Padma scoffed.

Another young Slytherin piped up again with a haughty, "No one can help that you're way too sensitive."

Padma's eyes widened, furious. "Come again?"

"Lance-! Don't _talk_ like that," That was Jodie, rising from her seat. "Words can be hurtful! That doesn't mean she's sensitive!"

Ginny's voice was accusatory as she glared at Hermione. "Why are these people even allowed to be here?"

"Maybe if your friend _calmed down,_ " Fay cut in, "and explained the situation like a _normal human being-_ "

Padma's breath hitched before she clenched her fists. "Oh you'd _best_ not be implying what I think you are-!"

"Merlin, do you just see enemies everywhere?" Fay argued, before Scarlett put a hand on her arm, staying her.

"Fay- _Please._ _You_ need to calm down. You're not helping-"

Jodie was growing angry as well. "How else is she meant to react? I'd be really upset too if I saw my bullies show up at a club that's _supposed_ to be against inequality!"

Both Ginny and Padma made a noise that expressed both their frustration and relief. " _Thank_ you!" Padma belted. "At least _someone_ gets it!"

Terry looked exhausted as he crossed his arms. "Well, what do you want us to do? Kick them out?"

"Yes!" Ginny and Padma exclaimed, simultaneous.

"Hold on!" Ann whined. "That's not fair. You can't just kick us out over a _joke._ One random girl throws a fit and suddenly me and my friends are no longer welcome?"

"Why should you be?" Ginny questioned, red in the face. "Especially when you make the entire school inhospitable for everyone? Why are you even _here?_ "

"I haven't done anything! Now you're just hurling baseless accusations at me!" Ann complained. Her eyes, widened and exaggeratedly morose, besought the help of the others. "How is that fair?"

"It's not," Lance grumbled, scowling.

"Do any of you know who my boyfriend is?" Ann continued. "I've been with him! On the picket line! That should prove, above all, that I'm here in solidarity!"

"Oh so just because your precious boyfriend is an activist, you're suddenly not a bully?" Padma accused.

Ginny looked toward Hermione again. "Hermione, I thought you were our friend. You can't seriously let these _Slytherins-_ "

"Oh we're just _Slytherins_ now, are we?" Lance was up in arms, practically barreling toward Padma with a raised finger in accusation. "So you whine because someone called you a _Paki_ but then turn around and discriminate against _us_ based on House-"

"Will you stop?!" Jodie shouted to her housemate. "There's a difference between a slur and _that!_ "

"You see that?" Padma looked at everyone around her in turn, livid. "You see what he just called me?"

"I didn't call you _anything,_ you moron!"

Ginny swooped in, aggressively shoving herself in the boy's face. "Call her that again. I dare you."

"Oh what's _that?_ " he balked with disgust, gesturing toward Ginny attempt at intimidation. "Just because I'm Slytherin, you think I'm going to attack your stupid friend?"

" _This_ is why people hate us!" Jodie shouted. "Because you act like this! Because you treat people like this!"

" _I_ haven't done anything!" the boy objected. "I haven't treated her like anything! But she's swanning around, saying there has to be a full ban on this club for Slytherins! I bet if we said, none of _her_ type allowed, everyone would be in uproar-"

" _My_ type?" Padma growled.

" _This_ is exactly why Slytherins shouldn't be allowed," Ginny seethed.

Fay popped up again, "There's a Slytherin _defending_ you, genius."

Ginny practically rounded on her. "You _know_ what I mean! _Obviously_ if they're not complete arseholes like this lot here, then they can stay!"

"I'm an _arsehole,_ am I?" Lance bristled. " _You're_ the one who started this whole mess! _You're_ the one with a problem! Why don't _you_ leave?"

"Because this club is meant for people like me!" Padma argued. "For people like Hermione! Why the hell should we be kicked out just because _you're uncomfortable_ being called out for your horrible behavior?"

He stepped up to Padma again, chest out. " _My_ horrible behavior, huh?"

All of a sudden, Harry burst out of his seat, placing himself in between Lance and the girl. "Back off."

"If you can't debate without hostility, then maybe you shouldn't involve yourself in matters like these," Ann suggested. "This is no way to achieve House unity."

"I don't want to be unified with you if it means excusing how you treat people," Ginny averred in a tone so cold Cleo felt the room chill.

Padma's tone grew urgent, her plea directed squarely at Hermione.. "Are you planning to do _anything_ about this?"

A quick glance at the girl revealed a picture of helplessness: her wide eyes, her face drained entirely of color, and her knuckles white as she gripped the scroll in her hands hard enough to strangle it. Hardly allowing her room to breathe, Padma shouted, "You going to say anything at all?!"

She was met with silence as Hermione stood frozen in place.

Padma scoffed. "Of course not." She pushed past her housemates, shoving Harry out of her way with enough force to destabilize him momentarily. Then, she leveled her gaze at Hermione's withered form. "Thanks for the support, _Granger._ "

Her angry gaze encompassed the entire room before she barged out, the sound of her stomping clamoring hurriedly down the hall.

There was a heavy pause following her departure. Nobody dared to move or make a sound, as if the slightest disturbance might nullify the fragile peace brokered in the silence.

A small boy closer in age to Thea raised a shaky hand. Ann was the one to prompt him. "Yes?"

"Um." He swallowed, nervous. "May I please go to the bathroom?"

The girl folded her arms, sighing in exasperation. " _Yes._ "

The child scuttled away, disappearing with the muted haste of a mouse. The atmosphere was only slightly less unbearable for the interruption. In the midst of it, Ann's voice arose once more. "Everyone… now that the disruption is over-"

"Disruption?! _Seriously?_ " Ginny erupted. " _Piss off,_ Rochford!"

She, similarly, stormed out the door. Ann, on the other hand, was quite composed, taking in a steadying breath before commenting, "What I was _going_ to say was- I asked for ideas from everyone because _my_ idea was to combine a bunch of them together into one big event for the whole school."

The group remained quiet, still recovering from the horrible awkwardness that still lingered about the space. Ann sighed, frowning as she admitted in a pitiable tone, "I just… thought it would be fun."

Megan, evidently, took this bait. "I think that's a _really_ fun idea. Right, everyone?"

The reaction from the room was lukewarm, with no one showing much support one way or the other. Somehow, Ann took this in stride.

"And if that girl had _let_ me speak, I would gladly have given her the opportunity to be a part of the event, leading the effort to teach everyone more about cultural sensitivity…"

With the din gone, Cleo felt more inclined to speak. Sitting up in her chair, she leveled Ann with a scowl. "Stop."

Her answering tone was sharp. " _What?_ "

With Ann staring back, the idea of getting into it with her seemed… pointless. Arguing the fact she'd _antagonized_ the girl into leaving was going to get her, and the meeting itself, nowhere. Nevermind the fact that picking a fight with a fifteen year old felt so…

Pursing her lips, Cleo pointedly turned her attention to Hermione, who hadn't budged one inch from where she stood, glum eyes trained to the ground. "What do you think, Hermione?"

As all eyes turned to the girl, Cleo nearly regretted drawing their attention. Hermione looked about ready to sick up; she was clinging to the podium as if it would keep her afloat. "Um…" she breathed, the sound shallow, as if the air was too thin. "I'm… We-" She filled her lungs, holding it before letting out in a whoosh: "We'll meet at the same time next week."

Releasing her stance, she turned quickly away, fumbling with her stack of papers as the room filled with murmurs and disgruntled chatter. As the students around her prepared to leave, Cleo looked at them in bewilderment; were they honestly ready to just leave it at _that?_

Well, maybe they were. The migrating crowd appeared to want nothing more than to scatter and leave behind what had been an awkward, unexpected experience. Perhaps wondering if something like _this_ was even worth the bother.

And Cleo hadn't exactly made that better, had she? Especially not to Hermione, bamboozled like that. What else was she meant to say, other than what would give her the quickest means of escape?

Shit.

The girl was still attempting to gather her things when Cleo spotted her. She needed to apologize.

She tried to make her way there immediately, but she was stopped by Ann and her entourage, who paused to deliver a sarcastic greeting. "Hey _Cleo,_ it's so nice to see you contributing to the _community_ for once!" This was uttered along with the prettiest and deadliest of smiles, but she quickly dropped the pretense, her nose wrinkling. "I just want you to know, this was _your_ fault. There never would have been a fight if you'd kept that giant mouth of yours shut.

"So, congratulations on ruining everything you touch," Ann remarked, saccharine, "and have a _lovely_ day."

The sudden onset of hostility took her aback, and the girl allowed her no room to react, receding back to her friend group with an adolescent swagger that spoke volumes of what Ann thought she'd just accomplished.

A zinger she would, no doubt, recount to her friends with all the confidence that could only live inside of a teenager.

Cleo supposed if she were sixteen still herself, she would've been intimidated. Instead, being on the other end of the melodramatics made her realize how vast the gap was between her and her current "peer group."

She didn't know what to make of it, other than to wipe the second-hand embarrassment off her face as she continued her way to Hermione. The delay had given her enough time to pack up her things. Cleo hurried to approach her, but before she could get close enough, Harry beat her to it.

"Hey, you alright?" he broached, his voice so careful it almost sounded patronizing.

Even from a distance, Cleo could hear how strained the girl's voice was. "Yes. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Harry's brow was furrowed with concern. He lowered his voice to say something, and it prompted an immediate, caustic reaction from Hermione.

"It certainly wouldn't be the _first_ time. Not that _you_ care!" she accused him, her arms jerkily scooping up her bag.

" _Hermione,_ please…"

"Leave me alone," was her strict demand, and she walked straight out the door a moment later.

Cleo's arrival felt rather untimely in that moment. She considered walking away altogether, until she noticed Harry's eyes catch hers. No escaping it after that, she supposed. Though she couldn't shake the feeling of being caught in a place she shouldn't have been.

"Happy to see you out of the infirmary," she addressed him once she was close enough, trying for a neutral, safe ground.

There was an unsettled edge to his acknowledgement, a stiffness to his neck as he nodded. "Yeah, I uh… heal up quick."

"Guess the rest was just what you needed, then?"

Harry pressed his lips together; she felt certain he'd meant to smile, but it seemed to have arrived half-baked on his face. "I don't think any amount of rest could have prepared me for…" He gestured vaguely toward the center of the room.

"Oh." Cleo blew out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Yeah. This could have gone better."

The boy folded his arms, frowning. "Understatement of the century."

She smiled at him, albeit quite sadly. "I wanted to apologize to her, actually."

"What for?"

"I only wanted Ann to stop bulldozing her," she admitted. "But I didn't realize putting the attention on Hermione would make her feel pressured."

Harry's gaze traveled to the door. "Padma was right. Don't think anything is going to get done until the Slytherins are gone."

Her answering sigh was exhausted; she wasn't going to quibble with him about nuance. "Maybe so."

At that, he seemed to remember who he was talking to. "I, ehm… I didn't mean _you_."

"It doesn't matter," she tried to smooth over, diplomatic. "I'm not going to fight you on it."

However, this put Harry even further ill-at-ease; he cleared his throat, not looking at her directly. "Anyway- I just wish there was something I could do... not that Hermione really wants my help right now."

"She does," she softly disagreed. "I think she's just incredibly overwhelmed. This meeting meant a lot to her and considering how it just went-"

"Yeah, I know," he commented, a weariness suffusing his tone. "It's just- The three of us had a row, and now she's hardly talking to me or Ron."

"Can I ask what you fought about?" Cleo attempted, wary. After a moment, however, she nervously tacked on: "It's alright if not."

His deliberation lasted only a few seconds before he said, "I don't really want to talk about it. It's just… It's all a bit of a mess, is what I mean."

"I see."

If he picked up on her careful tone, he didn't let on. "Anyway, er… We still meeting up on Thursday? I'll have the Blood Replenishing Potion memorized by then."

"Ah… yeah. I might be a little late because I have a thing in the morning with Snape but… I'll be there."

His lips were closed tight when he smiled. "Well. Sorry, er, I've got Quidditch - I'm late already, but I wanted to be here for… you know."

The abrupt way he'd mentioned that left her stomach feeling tied up in knots. "No, don't want to keep you. Sorry. Have fun."

With a brief wave, he murmured, "See you later."

And when Harry turned his back, she felt a rush of heat blister against her eyelids, so sudden and unexpected that she ducked her head away to hide them.

••••••••••

She was delivering her sixth round of potions to the fourth floor Wednesday evening when a voice by her side startled her.

"Hey."

A man emerged from the other side of a nearby curtain. Attired in green, he had the look of any typical hospital employee, but there was one key difference: Instead of the sashes given to healers, the man was wearing a floor-length white tunic over top his robes. Rather than the unicorn brooches Cleo was used to seeing in the Potion wards, his department pin was shaped like a three-headed snake. The man's teeth glinted as he flashed her a smile, tucking his wand away as he approached her. "New blood from The Pit, I take it?"

Cleo's head dipped into a terse nod. "Yeah."

He offered his hand. "Richard Moore, Minder-In-Charge."

She had to shift her small container of vials into one arm as she caught his hand in hers for a light shake. "Cleo Croft."

"Nice to meet you." His head inclined toward the collection of vials. "Got a delivery for me?"

"Yes." Her reply was measured, nowhere close to how chipper his was. "You want them anywhere in particular or-"

"Ah, well-" His forehead crinkled as he glanced around. "Suppose beside the girl is all right. We were about to administer anyway. Has Pye gone over the procedure with you?"

"No. He's been keeping me oriented toward the lab work."

Richard shifted as he placed his hands into the pockets of his robes, the movement entirely casual. "Well, I'm happy to let you observe if you aren't expected back immediately."

Cleo glanced over her shoulder, uncertain. "Do you think that would be alright?"

"Like I said, if you aren't expected back immediately, it's above board. Pye might be your mentor, but we all like to educate the apprentices when we can. I imagine with being stuck in the lab, you're not getting much face time with the patients?"

A sheepish smile swept over her features. "Not really."

He flashed another smile of his own to match hers. "Spelling potions to the stomach is rather rudimentary. I'd be happy to teach you."

"I'd really like that, actually," she admitted, the enthusiasm that was meant to be there failing to reach her voice. Her eyes locked to the courtesy curtain beside them. "You said it's for the Jane Doe?"

His eyebrow raised. "Hm?"

"Oh, uhm- I guess I've gotten used to saying -" Cleo paused, her expression twisting up before she explained, "Jane Doe - it's sort of a stand in name used as a placeholder for people who haven't yet been identified where I come from."

His lips pursed before they ticked up, amused. "Interesting."

Her brows drew together and she shook her head, apologetic. "I'm sorry. I think I'm getting kind of used to being open with Pye and-"

"No, honestly, it's interesting. He's known for that around here, you know. Medical integration." Richard's voice lowered as he leaned in toward her. "It actually got him kicked out of the last ward he was assigned to. Pretty awful shame, if I'm honest."

"Oh."

Richard suddenly shook his head, frowning. "Oh, it's nothing like ah- him getting in trouble for _talking_ about it, or what have you. More like, he tried a Muggle medical procedure on a patient. Rather harmless. But it didn't take well."

Cleo let out a breath. "That's unfortunate."

"Thankfully, it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed," Richard clarified. "But, Smethwyck tried to get him fired. Probably would've succeeded had the family not been as compassionate as they were, and if the bloke hadn't willingly agreed to the procedure in the first place."

"What was it, if I can ask?"

At this, a short laugh escaped from the man's mouth. "Stitches."

Instinctively, Cleo's eyes plummeted down to the front of her stomach, her insides feeling lead-heavy. "Oh. Actually, I have experience with that. Didn't go well for me either."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's fine now, really."

With a jovial hum, Richard nodded once before pulling a hand out of his pocket to gesture toward the curtain. "Well, I would be very delighted if you would assist me in attending to our 'Jane Doe'."

His levity was likely intended to settle on her, warm and sincere, but all she could manage was an awkward grin to meet it as he pulled the curtain apart to allow her through first.

The girl's recovery was coming along well enough. Despite her coma still persisting, her Splinch wound had healed over, for the most part. Her sinew and flesh were still in the process of repairing themselves, but in a few days the area would fill out and scar over. Her bruises had yellowed and were fading. Thankfully, she had begun gaining weight. Not near enough to be considered healthy, but in the very least she didn't appear to be wasting away anymore.

"You have her full round of doses?" Richard prompted.

"Yes," Cleo supplied, placing the small crate on her bed side table. Her finger pointed to each vial in turn as she listed them off, "Blood Replenishing, Tissue Regenerative, Nutritional Elixir, Splinch Salve, Bruise Balm, and Pain Relief."

"I thought Healer Lindt put in an order for Bone Restorative this morning," Richard mused, lips twisting.

"Oh, well- I'm sorry, this is all Pye told me to brew."

He waved a hand. "Not your fault. Probably a mix up. Would you mind telling Pye about it, though? We were finally able to do a more thorough examination since her condition stabilized and we ended up discovering multiple fractures."

God, how horrible.

"I know we have some in stock," Cleo told him, stepping back. "I could run down to the department real quick and fetch one for you?"

Richard shook his head. "No need. I'll have Minder Tenenbaum handle it when we administer her Nutritional in the morning."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Richard replied with a grin. "I appreciate the go-get-'em attitude, though."

She flushed, though more so because she was ashamed that part of her was relieved he wouldn't take her up on her offer. "Thank you."

"Now," he remarked, his voice taking on a tone of instruction, "when we administer potion directly into the organs, it's better to start with a Nutritional. Some of these potions can cause nausea if not taken with food."

Cleo's head dipped into a nod. It was good to know that, in some areas, Muggle and Magical medicine weren't all that different.

"The incantation starts with _Iaculis,_ " he informed her as he unstoppered the Nutritional Elixir. "You direct the wand from the bottle opening to the patient's form. Then you indicate the area in the incantation itself. For this purpose, it's _Ventri._ "

Cleo's brow furrowed. "Ventri?"

"Latin for stomach," the man told her. "Inexact, I know. It also has the unfortunate side effect of forcing us to memorize human anatomy in Latin as well."

"English doesn't work?"

"Not to my knowledge," Richard mused. "Perhaps even if that were possible, it's not something I, personally, would like to test on one of my patients, considering the amount of things that could go wrong. If I were you, I'd invest in learning some rudimentary Latin."

Great. Just what she needed. Cleo forced herself to nod.

"I'll show the first round," he announced, directing his attention to the girl. With his wand at the ready, he spoke as he moved, the wand work fluid and practiced, " _Iaculis Ventri._ "

The vial's contents tapered away until disappearing completely, and Cleo glanced from it to Richard's wand tip, head tilting.

"Simple as that," the man concluded, slipping his wand back into his pocket. "Not very showy, but we wouldn't want it to be, would we? How about you try the next one?"

Cleo hesitated. She wasn't so sure she wanted to try. "You're sure that's okay?"

"I wouldn't offer if I thought this procedure was overly complicated and dangerous for an apprentice," he assured her. "This is often the first thing you have to learn. Here, with her Blood Replenishing."

He allowed her room to practice with her fingers and, after a few tries, she pulled her wand from her scrubs and made a careful attempt of her own. She observed the Blood Replenishing Potion drain from the insides of the glass bottle and disappear with apprehension etched into her features.

"Easy as that," Richard complimented. "Good job. Why don't you take the next two as well?"

In the end, he'd allowed her to administer all the potions that weren't topical. He took over with the Salve, happy to instruct her on the proper way it was applied to Splinch wounds and had just begun the same process with the Bruise Balm when a woman approached the entrance of the ward, the expression on her face tight and severe.

"Richard, if you would," she called across the gap. Cleo was thrown off kilter by her accent, harsh and… German? When the man looked, she crooked a finger to beckon him.

"Oh, Cleo," he breathed, pulling out his wand to casually dispel the balm from his hands. "Would you mind applying the rest of this? Just be careful that you don't jostle her too much. It's the neck and arms left. I'll be right back."

"Wait, is that alright?" Cleo protested, frowning. "Leaving me with a patient?"

Richard waved a hand as he began to walk away. "Thank you for checking, but this instance will be fine."

He trotted away to approach the grey haired woman. They exchanged words and headed off down the hall together, leaving Cleo with Bruise Balm in one hand and a comatose girl in the other.

The dollop was beginning to spread across her palm as she grimaced, her eyes drifting between it and the pervasive yellow-green pallor of the girl's skin. Bending forward slightly, Cleo rested her free hand on the girl's wrist, uttering a soft, "Sorry. I'll just-"

She gingerly lifted the girl's arm just above the covers, holding it in place as she slathered the solution against the problem areas. Her clavicles needed a generous helping and it was with smooth, careful strokes she made her way down until she turned the girl's wrist over.

A raven sat there on her skin, clicking its beak at her in silence. Cleo's brow furrowed. Bit young for a tattoo, wasn't she? But, then again-

"Didn't know they made magical tattoos," she muttered inanely. It seemed a bit nutty to talk to a girl who wasn't at _all_ cognizant that someone was speaking to her in the first place. But it helped, in a way. Made this entire process seem a million times less invasive and awkward. "It looks nice. Wish I could ask where you got it done." She paused, contracting her fingers against her palm as she meandered around the bed. Other arm next.

"I have to do this one now," she told the girl. "Hope it's okay. I don't want to bother you too much. I promise it'll be quick."

She started from the shoulders again, pausing briefly to apply a bit of extra to a collection of healing bruises at her elbow. "We have you on the good stuff, I think. So the pain shouldn't be much. And then your Bone Restorative is in the morning, so those fractures will clear up quick."

Her head tilted as she upturned the girl's right wrist and found a lion, slight but magnificent all the same, yawning against the girl's veins. Cleo placed her hand back onto the mattress and moved to the bedside table for another handful of Bruise Balm.

"Sorry about this," she apologized as she leaned down to plane her fingers over the front of the girl's neck. A bit of yellowing hid itself at the crook, trailing around to the nape, and down her back…

"I don't know if I should lift your head or move you to the side," Cleo admitted aloud. Knowing where her fractures were located could have helped in that decision. Maybe if she…

"I'm going to lift you by the shoulder a bit, if that's okay," she said in the most gentle voice she could manage. "It'll be a second, just have to make sure I get everything, uhm-"

Bodies were heavier than anticipated. "Dead weight" wasn't a phrase used for no reason, she supposed. All the same, the girl's body acquiesced when the right amount of careful force was applied and, as Cleo held her securely by the torso, she applied the balm against her shoulder blades and…

Another tattoo of an eagle sitting regal and proud, wings tucked in, was perched just under her skull. Cleo shook her head and smoothed her fingers against the bruise that sat just under its beak.

"You must be a very fun person," she remarked, casual, making sure not to massage her fingers too roughly. "I've always wanted a tattoo. Seemed like they hurt, though. But maybe getting the magical kind isn't as hard. Where I come from, they use needles, and-"

Her words were cut through by the sound of guttural, long-suffering breath. It took a second to process, but there was no delay in Cleo's reaction when she suddenly felt the shoulders against her forearm tense, albeit weakly.

God. Please no.

Cleo's movements were slow and deliberate as she lowered her back onto the mattress. She felt like apologizing, but it wasn't as if-

Another groan came from the girl, more forceful that time. When Cleo peered into her face, her eyes were still closed, but her lips had tensed up against her teeth. Her throat clenched, like she was swallowing…

Oh, God. She must have been parched.

She glanced over her shoulder. Shit. Fuck the night shift. Why wasn't anyone _there?_

There was no way she was strong enough to swallow water on her own. She couldn't risk letting the girl choke. Maybe there was a hydration spell. Did they even _have_ protocols for that? She had no idea. No, couldn't risk an Aguamenti, or anything similar…

It wasn't long until the girl rode it out on her own. Her throat ceased convulsing, but her expression had grown tense. Her eyes opened into a squint, her chest rising with breath that seemed to grow heavier and more frantic by the second.

Cleo recognized it as panic almost immediately. It made sense. If Cleo had woken up in a hospital, not knowing where she was or how she'd even gotten there, with minimal control of her own body- she'd be terrified, too.

By instinct, she bent down and caught the girl's hand. "You're safe," was the first thing she thought to say, her voice so low and tender it came out a whisper. "You're in St. Mungo's hospital. You're safe. Just breathe, okay?"

The girl's splayed fingers twitched minutely and her throat seized up as if she'd attempted swallowing again. For what it was worth, the girl appeared to be _trying_ to steady her lungs.

More information. If Cleo were her, she'd want to know more. "You can't move very well because you're very heavily sedated. You were found Splinched in Bottlebrush. Do you remember Apparating there?"

By then, the girl's eyelids had opened marginally. Cleo could still see the blood in them: Small, dead capillaries spilling themselves over her sclera, like she'd been punched. Or choked. Or worse.

The girl's mouth struggled to open as her throat constricted, the sound of her breath clicking in a glottal stop at the back of her mouth. The rest of it eased out in a soft groan, some approximation of speech. Cleo frowned.

"Don't try to talk," she urged the girl, grimacing. She should have said that sooner. "Do you think you can blink? Or move your head at all?"

The slight twitch of her head seemed to be her attempt to move it, in vain. A second later, however, her eyelids dipped before fluttering open again.

"Okay," Cleo breathed. "One for yes, two for no. Do you understand?"

The girl's eyelids fell once before sluggishly pulling themselves upwards.

"If this gets too tiring for you, we can stop. You need to rest if you can. Okay?"

One blink.

"Do you remember Apparating to Bottlebrush?"

One blink.

"Do you remember what happened before then?"

One blink.

"Was it an accident?"

Two blinks.

Cleo was likely overstepping her bounds here, she realized. It wasn't as if this girl was anywhere near close to being ready to be interrogated. These questions weren't even her place to ask, at any rate…

Yet, all the same. "Do you know who you are?"

One blink.

"So you can identify yourself when you can?"

Although the girl blinked, a labored breath passed through her teeth, sounding pained.

"Don't push yourself," Cleo reminded the girl. "Are you in pain?"

Two.

"Are you frightened?"

One.

It felt stupid, but Cleo reflexively squeezed her hand. "Don't be, okay? You're being taken care of now. Nothing will happen. I don't know what happened to you before, but- you're here, in London, on the Spell Damage floor of St. Mungo's. You are completely safe, I promise."

Her eyes rolled upward, as if taking in her environment for the first time. She tried to swallow again.

"I bet you're thirsty, yeah?"

The girl's eyes lowered to look at her as she blinked again.

"Okay. I'll go find a Minder or Healer, alright? They'll know how to make you comfortable. Just wait here."

But as Cleo moved away, she felt a slight tug against her thumb as the girl's fingers curled upwards to catch hers. At that same moment, a pained breath escaped her again, but this time…

This time, the groan resembled a syllable. "Da…"

Cleo stopped, brow furrowing as she turned back around.

The girl was staring at her, wide-eyed and earnest. "Da-..."

"You shouldn't-"

"... d. Da-"

Her mouth strained and Cleo filled in the gap, "Dad?"

Her throat contracted as she swallowed back her breath, making that awful clicking noise again. The girl's eyes shut emphatically.

"I-" Cleo faltered before glancing over her shoulder again. "Miss, we don't know your name. There was nothing to identify you when you were found."

The girl's chin lifted as her lips twitched with movement. "Vi," she tried. "Vi-"

Cleo stalled her by placing a hand on hers again. "You _really_ need to rest. Over exerting yourself right now is going to make things worse. Just give it a couple of hours, okay? Then you'll be able to tell us your name and we'll be able to contact your family-"

The sound that blundered through the girl was near violent with panic. The whole of her struggled as if to voice her disagreement.

Startled, Cleo leaned against the bed, using her hand on the girl's arm to steady her. "I know- I know it's scary, but I _promise,_ okay? I _promise._ But in order to find your Dad, I _need_ to find a Healer in order to help you better."

For what it was worth, the girl relented, though with a bit of reluctance, if the look in her eye was anything to go by. Cleo gave her wrist a reassuring squeeze. "I promise, I'll help you find your Dad."

They stood there, gazes locked, for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, however, the girl's body relaxed and her eyelids drooped.

One blink.

And with that, Cleo turned and ran out of the ward faster than she ever had in her life.

••••••••••

Early Thursday morning, there was still no word. Braving her responsibilities was becoming an impossible, exhausting task, requiring a tenacity that was preternatural.

However, she had no other choice but to bear it.

Snape had instructed her to arrive around a particular patch of the grounds. The pre-sunrise haze gave the man himself the look of an inky blotch amid a brush-stroked landscape. He was alerted to her presence by the sound of her footfalls on the dewy grass.

"We will be entering the Forbidden Forest," he announced once Cleo was in earshot. His deep voice carried across the field easily; the grounds were quiet as a whisper. "I trust you understand all that entails."

Her heart wasn't anywhere near her voice when she replied, "Yes, sir."

The professor's eyes narrowed minutely, but he said nothing, merely turning on his heel and walking directly to the treeline. Cleo's gait was sluggish and cumbersome as she trailed behind him.

Two minutes of walking, and they were already further in than she'd ever been. It was odd; beyond a certain, indeterminate point they seemed to cross over into another atmosphere entirely. The air was thick, humid, the vegetation dense; the trees were clumped together in gnarled embraces, wild and moss-covered. And the echoing _noise_ surrounding them- it was as if they had shut themselves in a small room filled with hundreds of invisible creatures, all chattering and groaning at once.

Ahead, Snape navigated around swirling brambles and ducked past massive low-hanging branches with ease, his movements practiced. Observing his progress along the beaten path, such as it was, helped Cleo to manage her way through well enough, but she was still caught by thorns and unsteady footholds.

At most, the journey had taken fifteen minutes. The professor was stopped at the base of an enormous ravine, which rose high above them, shrouded in a thick blanket of vegetation. The passageway was so narrow and overgrown that Cleo would have to squeeze into it sideways.

Snape's voice seemed hauntingly quiet amid the lively din of the forest. "Are you familiar with tracking charms?"

She was busy pulling bits of dead leaves and twigs from her hair when she answered. "In theory."

Brandishing his wand, he pointed it toward the nearest tree, tapping the bark with the tip. "A passing knowledge will suffice for this exercise," he told her. "Incantation: _Signo_."

Although lethargic, she plucked her wand from her pocket and tapped the tip against the tree bark as he had. " _Signo._ "

Nothing happened. Frowning, she lifted her wand to try again, but Snape stopped her with a raised hand and a second instruction. "Now, _Pertento Solus_."

"No wand movement?" she confirmed.

"You need only hold steady."

"Right," she exhaled. "Let me-" She lifted her wand and sliced it to the side, canceling what she'd just done with a whispered _Finite_. Then, she pressed her wand back against the bark. " _Signo,_ " she repeated. She allowed a beat of a pause to pass, keeping her wand tip steadily against the same area. " _Pertento Solus._ "

The spot on the tree where she had cast began to shine very brightly, the light so intense that she was forced to squint. Snape's gaze followed the path behind them; when she peered that way, she could see a glowing trail leading back from where she was standing, ghostly afterimages which walked in her footsteps like a long, white shadow.

"You will return here without an escort tomorrow," the professor informed her by way of explanation as she ended the spell. "This will allow you to track your own magical signature."

"Will my wand pick it up naturally, or will I have to incant something to see the path?"

" _Pertento Solus_ will reveal your mark," he said, tapping the tree once again before stepping over its roots. "Signature trails fade with time; you may place more marks on the way back to the castle."

Right. _Obviously._ He'd just shown her how it worked.

With that, Snape brushed away a strand of overhanging moss, indicating with a pointed look that she should go ahead of him. The narrow path was dark and soggy and filled with critters, if the tickling sensation crawling on the back of her neck was anything to go by. She couldn't help the periodical shudder that shimmered down her back every time she felt one.

Their trip through the ravine was blessedly short; she emerged from the other side bathed in soft early morning light. The land sloped downward from where she was standing, a lighted glen through which a gurgling stream passed in its center. Wet rocks and green fallen logs framed the water's edge, and further down the stream let out into a small pool.

Having been so immersed in the manner of foliage native to the forest, she then spotted a section unmistakably out of place. On the opposite side of the stream was a patch of land where the soil was upturned and an orderly assortment of plants sat, untangled and exotic, separate from the wild mess around them.

"Gloves on," Snape instructed as he passed by her, descending the slope with long strides.

It took a second for his instruction to register before she was pulling her dragonhide gloves from her robe pocket. They felt a little tight as she pulled them on to each hand, the rest of her working in a warbly gait down the rocky glen. She near tripped when she crossed the stream in one long step, but caught herself with a soft yelp in surprise.

Snape glanced over his shoulder to observe her, but said nothing, his attention returning promptly to the garden. Cleo shuffled beside him as he pulled several small packages from a pocket of his robes. "With the aid of Professor Sprout's connections abroad, you have several options to choose from," he told her.

Her mind was in a haze, but she managed to say, "I remember us concluding in my research that _Aconitum carmichaelii_ or possibly _violaceum_ would be most suitable for what I'm going for."

"Yes," he murmured, looking over the lot, "however, as I require a supply of wolf's bane myself, you will have four varieties to observe. Should you find keener results among the others, you may shift your focus accordingly."

"That's generous," she remarked. "I should thank Professor Sprout."

"Indeed."

Snape strode directly toward an empty patch of ground, placing the slim parcels he'd been carrying down. His wand swished sideways before looping upward, and the packages swelled to ten times their previous size. "This space from the bank to the treeline belongs to you." With a flick of his wand, he indicated the patch of earth directly adjacent. "You are forbidden to disturb any of these, else you will be held responsible for the damage you cause."

The eclectic collection she'd witnessed earlier appeared to belong to the professor, she noted. His half of the space was loaded with all manner of strange foliage, most of which she didn't recognize. Looking back at Snape, she saw he was eyeing her rather shrewdly. Oh. He was waiting for a response. "I won't," she promised. When his gaze grew further pointed, she added, "Really, Professor."

His chief acknowledgement was a frown and a toneless hum. "You have all you need to begin."

It was a bit overwhelming, if she were honest. She wasn't anywhere close to being in the mood to garden. Not that it mattered; it wasn't as if she could tell Snape she didn't _feel_ like it.

But even then, she stood there for a protracted moment, face blank. Trying to dredge up the motivation to do anything at all.

Snape surveyed her, his eyebrows drawn low over his forehead. "Must I repeat myself, Miss Croft?"

Her head shook. "No. Sorry."

It took a few seconds more, but she approached the plot, the rough leather of her gloves squeaking as she stretched her fingers. "The packages have my aconite?" she checked.

"Compost." The answer was clipped as he turned away toward his own plot.

"Then where-?" She stopped short, noticing the row of plants lined up on her side of the makeshift garden. She recognized several species of aconite, each roughly two meters high with their roots tied up at the end with a burlap sack, and there were _a lot_ of them. For fuck's sake - how had she missed that? "Right." She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "Smart."

She lurched forward, limbs buzzing with frustration, and dragged two of the plants toward the opposite end. They weren't especially heavy, but the odd angles of the stems jostled her knuckles unpleasantly. By the time she'd reached the far end, she was already tired of it.

Cleo returned to the pile, grimacing as she grabbed another two and dragged them over. Then another set, and another. Twenty-four plants total. She'd only kept count out of habit; long hours at the hospital doing nothing but cutting and sorting ingredients had already made their mark on her.

When she'd finished arranging the bagged plants, Cleo surveyed the tableau with a sluggish, meandering interest. Frowning, she was half afraid she'd have to dig into the soil with her fingers when she noticed a set of gardening tools behind the sacks of compost. And beyond that was a wicker basket filled with a quaint, flowered watering can, a neatly folded leather apron, and an extra set of cloth gloves. No doubt the work of Professor Sprout once again.

So. There was that, at least.

Arms crossed over her chest, she glanced in Snape's direction. He had made his way closer to the water's edge, sliding his wand through the air in a gliding motion. The unspoken spell caused a section of the stream to branch off toward the garden, sluicing into the soil.

Restraining a sigh, she turned back to the plants before her, vision unfocused. She felt like she ought to be more excited. Or grateful, at least. But at that moment, the thought of dealing with those poisonous bushes was tiresome.

 _It'll be relaxing_ , she attempted to convince herself. _Just like summer gardening with Mum._

The moment she had the thought, it clanged bitterly in her head; not only was the sentiment inappropriate, but the very thought of her mother's face turned her stomach.

In an effort to dispel the thought, Cleo sprang into action. From the pile of tools, she hastily grabbed a trowel, taking quick strides to the nearest plot.

She stabbed the tool into the dirt harder than she'd meant to, the action full bodied and exaggerated. The movement was so jarring that her shoulder twinged.

Cleo forced her eyes closed. This had to stop. It was getting ridiculous. _Focus. Chill out._

It took a few more pointed strikes into the dirt before she settled in to digging a hole normally, sprinkling the area with compost, removing the aconite plant from its burlap, and setting the root into the plot.

The process was far from relaxing; the plants, much taller than they were wide, kept listing to the side as she attempted to pile up the soil around the base. There were also several disgruntled inhabitants within the ground itself, unhappy to be displaced by her work and threatening to bite at her fingers. A combination of wind across her arms, dead leaves at her feet, and insects brushing past her neck kept her skin crawling for the duration; conscious of the fact she was surrounded on all sides by deadly aconite, she repeatedly had to take off her magic-resistant gloves in order to cast cleaning spells on whatever section of her had begun itching.

She worked like that, arduously and forced, for what felt like hours. Or however long it reasonably took to make three rows of five aconite plots, evenly spaced. Every so often, she noticed Snape glance her way to supervise her work, and thankfully it hadn't been wretched enough to warrant his reprimand.

Even so, by the fifteenth dig, her hands were starting to bother her more than she could ignore. Before, it had been an irritating soreness that radiated up from her wrist to her knuckles. Now, it was a weeping sort of sting that spiked sharply up her entire arm if she so much as moved her fingers.

Just as she had nearly finished clearing a space for the next plant, her forefinger caught on the handle of her trowel, jostling the joint. The pain was so sharp that she cried out and fell back, landing on her tailbone in the dirt and cradling her hand to her chest.

Snape was at her side the very next instant, his quick reflexes familiar from all her time in his classroom. "Miss Croft?" he prompted, voice stern.

"It's _fine!_ " she snapped.

His eyes narrowed. "Explain yourself."

That attitude certainly wasn't helping. She fumbled roughly with pulling her gloves off, flexing her fingers outward. "Will you just back _off?_ "

Snape drew himself to full height, an obvious tell that he was gearing up for some scathing lecture or other. "Denying injury is foolhardy at best-"

She _wasn't._ Her hands _hurt_ because _his_ idea of a day well fucking spent was over a cauldron for over twelve hours without a god damn fucking break! She glared down at her open palm as she massaged her knuckles between her fingers, her frustration mounting with every second the pain didn't ebb.

Without thinking, she grabbed the trowel and threw it, hard, against a nearby tree. The horrendous metal _clang_ was a gruesome underline to her scream, "Why am I even _here?!_ "

When the echo of her own voice faded in the canopy of trees above them, she was forced to endure Snape's own brand of silence, the barbed disapproval in his stare saying plenty on its own.

She couldn't take being under its scrutiny. It was too much. Even worse, because it was saying more than he likely intended to communicate. The explicit judgment in it cut her to the quick and, as she stared up into it, her eyes went awash with tears. The next second, she forced her head down and covered her mouth to stifle a soft sob.

An awful quiet followed after the noise, even worse than the first. A silence that urged her tears to ooze out of her, uninhibited, until she was hunched over herself, catching her cries in the palm of her hand.

Still, the professor said nothing. Did nothing. It was a full minute before she saw his boots recede from her periphery, walking a distance away.

Then, to her surprise, Snape _did_ speak, though it was only a single word.

"Come."

When she looked up, he was standing beside the plot, trowel in hand. The professor held it out with handle facing her, a clear invitation.

She hiccuped on her own breath as she glanced between the tool and the man's face, the free flow of tears catching on the edge of her jaw. She shook her head.

His mouth twitched downward as he adjusted his grip on the tool and stared at her, unwavering. " _Come,_ " he said again. That time, it sounded half an order, half an entreaty.

He was giving her a chance, she realized. To recover from this. To retain some dignity.

Though, it was hard to even want that. It was hard to think it was worth anything, considering the circumstances. But he was trying.

So, she had to as well.

It took effort, but she lifted her hand to take the trowel from him, another sob escaping her with all the grace of a cough.

He did not instruct her right away, as she'd expected him to do. With a short swish of his wand, the tie around the burlap unknotted itself, falling away from the plateau of dirt and roots belonging to the nearby aconite plant. Floating it sideways, he placed it in the center of the hole she'd been digging, holding it in place with a gloved hand at the top and a foot at the base when the spell released.

At that, his gaze fell on her, expectant.

Her breath ran thick in her mouth as she forced herself to swallow her cries, inching toward the plot on her knees until she was kneeling at the base. With the trowel delicately, and pathetically, gripped by her sore fingers, she moved to start pushing loose dirt into the hole. A harsh breath escaped her suddenly, jostling some of the aconite petals, as her expression struggled against shattering.

" _Motus Imperium,_ " the professor murmured. "Guiding wand movement. Single focus."

"On the trowel?" she whimpered, the words coming out honeyed and tear stricken.

He lifted his eyebrows, normally a precursor to sarcasm, but all he said was, "Yes."

A shaky hand sought her wand and held it loosely in the crevice of her middle and forefingers, her eyes locked on the garden tool that she left slumped against a pile of soil. It was a simple spell, honestly. Something she'd learned earlier in the year in Charms. One of the easiest she'd ever accomplished when she'd put her practice of setting intentions to use.

She just had to imagine it, to want the trowel to gingerly fill the hole and smooth out the ground near the aconite stem, to space itself to the next row over, dig a hole, and repeat the process again.

But her mind could only focus on one thing: A host of scattered images, fractals of past memory, every bit of it painful and obstructive. They took up space, didn't allow room for her to try to visualize anything else.

But she tried anyway, the spell stumbling out of her wound-like mouth, " _Motus… Imperium._ "

The trowel sat up as if awaking, turning on its point in the soil before falling back to the ground.

The embarrassment of the spell failing struck her more than it ought have. Immediately looking away, she blocked out another loud sob with the back of her hand.

Snape's voice sounded like static when he spoke; it blended with the myriad of forest noises. If he was waiting for a response, he wouldn't get one; her ears were as clogged as her throat.

At length, the trowel picked itself up again and began doing the job she'd failed to tell it to do as the professor fitted her with a new occupation. "Start watering these."

Her humiliation mounted as he filled in to do her job _for_ her; her sobs, in response, came forth with earnest. "I-I'm s-sorry," she whined, her breath coming out in harsh staccato.

"For what?" he intoned, distributing the compost as the trowel did its work.

She sniffled hard, the sound of it so horrible and wet that it made her cringe. "C-Completely losing i-it."

The man offered her a gruff exhale. "It is hardly the first time, Miss Croft."

It wasn't. She could distinctly remember having done this exact same thing to Dumbledore and him before she left school, the potency of the memory enough to conjure a bit of rueful laughter, beaten out of her lungs in between sobs.

It wasn't long, however, before the tears took supremacy again. Especially as she glanced between herself and the stream and realized she hadn't made a single attempt to carry out his instruction. She couldn't. Not an inch of her would budge. Closing her eyes, the heaviness of her eyelids anchoring them down, she confessed, "I f-feel so- u-useless."

"I am acquainted with all manner of useless people," Snape informed her, an ironic slant to his otherwise truthful words, "I can guarantee not one would abide the thought of replanting two dozen aconite plants by hand."

Encouragement. He was trying again.

It was odd how _this_ was the most comforted she'd felt all week. Or pathetic. She couldn't tell which.

There was quiet between them for the space of a few minutes, but the sweeping rustle of leaves roared in her ears as a chill wind disturbed hundreds of branches overhead. It was only when Snape had finished the first plot and moved on to the next that he curtly reminded her, "The water, Miss Croft."

Her guilt guided her eyes back to the stream. Right. Okay. More chances. She had to press on.

Rising to her feet, she trudged over to where Professor Sprout had left the watering can and took one in hand, her jaw setting against another wave of sobs. It would be fine. Dad would call by the end of the week. Mum would be back in rehab. Gabriel would be safe. _She_ had to tend her garden.

She meandered over to the stream and carefully lowered herself to the bank as she filled the can to the brim. She didn't mind doing it the Muggle way if her magic was going to be finicky. By the time she'd finished and ambled back next to the Professor, the last of that row had been completed.

Kneeling beside him, she set herself to the task of carefully sprinkling water on the completed rows, her countenance hardening by the second. Snape, for his part, was going about the next set of plants, his pace much more rapid than hers had been. "I feel certain you are aware that aconite generally blooms in the summer," he mentioned. It wasn't framed like a question, but she recognized it for what it was.

Her voice still warbled when she answered him. "Yes, what about it?"

"Have you given any thought to your method of achieving the required conditions ahead of year end?"

"I can barely think past the hour," she admitted, shuffling forward to water the next row. It was too much confession for the situation. Too much for a guy like Snape. Yet his apathy made it all the easier for her to clumsily let things slip.

Still, the man hardly reacted, as if he'd expected her answer. "There are several options available," he remarked, setting the next plant in its hole, "but all are likely to impact your results."

"That makes it almost impossible to know what to do," she weakly observed, feeling a few droplets fall from her lashes as she blinked. "Considering I don't exactly know what conditions would be optimal…"

"You have in your possession four varieties of aconite, and six each," Snape pointed out. "There is yet room for experimentation."

"That just feels like pressure," she replied, a bit gloomy. "I don't want to risk any magic ruining them."

"Research is, by its nature, _risky,_ Miss Croft," he told her, shooting her a look. "So long as you gain knowledge and insight from the venture, a collection of dead plants are a worthy sacrifice."

"Not if someone else is donating them to me," she argued, allowing the guilt of the hypothetical, of all things, to sadden her further. "That just- sounds selfish."

Snape paused his work to turn her way, his brows drawn low over his eyes. "To act in one's own self-interest and to act _selfishly_ are chiefly different concepts," he returned.

"They sound incredibly similar to me."

"The former is an act to improve your station, to elevate your own attributes," he explained. "The latter is to do the same, only at the willful expense of others."

"Well, considering this is out of Professor Sprout's pocket-"

"And exactly who drew it out?" Snape interrupted her, stern. " _You,_ Miss Croft? Have you orchestrated the transaction? Manipulated to get your way?"

"I might as well have!" she barked, more heated than was necessary. "Why is that so wrong to say? That I might have some responsibility in this? That my actions have consequences, that I have to comport myself better _because_ of that?"

He fitted her with a glare. "There is give and take in all things," the professor said, his gaze dropping back to his work. "One man's consequence is another's opportunity. Your _responsibility_ is to accept them with poise, and to capitalize upon them so as to outweigh whatever misfortune they sprang from."

"Not if I _create_ the misfortune," she corrected him, annoyed.

Snape scoffed. "And where is it? This misfortune you have wrought?"

Cleo looked him dead in the eye, frowning. "Just _stop._ "

The man held her stare with more intent than she was used to, though his eyes narrowed as he continued anyway, "You cannot be blamed for that which you cannot control."

He was making the deadly assumption that _none_ of this was under her control. Not that it mattered. She knew the truth. Breaking eye contact felt heavy, like pulling away from being held, but she managed with enough casualness to make her return to watering the final row appear seamless.

When she finished, Cleo leaned back, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, even though it was a useless gesture. "Weather charms, I think," she responded on delay. "Though I can't say how well the plants will respond."

"That is the most stable option." He picked up her line of thought easily, as if there had been no interlude. "The charms will, however, require some finesse. The change in climate must still be gradual enough to allow time for the aconite to react; a shock to the system would be quite disadvantageous."

That was harder for her to visualize, so… "You said there were other options," she prompted, sighing.

The man lifted an eyebrow at her. "Did you not already make your decision?"

"I don't trust my grasp on more advanced charmwork," she told him, eyes closing. She bent her head into the crook of her elbow, wiping away the last remnants of her tears.

"And why is that, exactly?" he questioned, deadpan.

She looked at him, squinting. "I just don't?"

"Ah, yes," Snape drawled, taking hold of the trowel to deposit it back where it came from. "Your thorough attempt at self-examination has certainly yielded _insightful_ results."

It wasn't worth arguing, or getting into it with him. Her jaw set momentarily, before her eyes swept from the garden back to him. Her expression went neutral as she lifted her chin. "Thank you." She blew a sigh through her nose as she tilted her head toward her garden. "For this."

His answering hum was unimpressed. "It is nothing."

"It won't happen again," she promised, picking up on his disapproving tone. "I'm sorry."

"Indeed it will not," Snape agreed. "I will make sure of it."

 _That_ caught her off guard. "I'm not sure what you mean-"

"As your advisor," he cut her off, a gleam in his eye, "it is imperative that I refine your work ethic, to ensure you do not fall behind due to a temporary leave of absence."

Wait, _what?_

"Temporary-" she staggered, wide eyed. "Professor?"

"I expect excellence, regardless of circumstance-" Snape continued as if he hadn't heard her, though his raised eyebrow indicated he had.

"But I don't understand-"

"- and you have family matters to attend to, do you not?"

He looked at her, expectant. As if this entire exchange hadn't mostly remained one sided. "How did you even-"

The professor arose from where he knelt, turning so quickly away from the garden that his fitted robes managed to flutter behind him, majestic. He did not pause his departure as he beckoned her with one word, just as unwavering in its conviction as it had been previously.

"Come."


	11. Reckoning

Happy birthday to us! And for our birthdays, we wanted to share this chapter with you. Hopefully you enjoy it as much as we had fun writing it! :)

 _Trigger warning for this chapter: Graphic descriptions of violence and decomposing bodies._

For chapter images and faster updates, check us out on AO3!

Coming Soon - Chapter 12: Derailed

••••••••••

Snape's affinity for taciturn menace had grown to alarming proportions in the time since the "Grimmauld Place Incident", as Harry had dubbed it.

Now, the man wasn't specifically _doing_ anything. In fact, his behavior had been spectacularly normal since that day, upholding his habit of sneering about Harry's incompetence at the regular, expected intervals. However, it was precisely that fact which disturbed Harry the most. Snape hadn't once mentioned what he'd witnessed. And for someone with a history of latching onto the slightest inspiration for ridicule, his discretion was scarier than anything else.

"Potter."

The professor's voice interrupted his thoughts. Harry came back to himself, trying to focus his eyes on the man, but to no avail - the night was far too dark.

The surrounding forest wasn't especially dense, but whatever moonlight could have been in attendance was obscured by clouds and fog. They stood on the gradual slope of a large hill, the road at the bottom behind them. A lazy rain dripped from the sparse canopy above, the intervals between icy droplets just spaced out enough to be annoying.

"Potter," came the strict prompt again, off to his left. "Do you intend to keep pace, or would you prefer to continue your loitering?"

The professor had opted out of using any lighting charms and, though he hadn't provided any reasons, Harry could guess why. They stood in the footsteps of Violet Ayers and, by extension, Barty Crouch Jr.; there was an indisputable danger underlining their every action.

Dead leaves crunched underfoot as Harry made his way toward Snape, withholding any complaint he might have had. As he approached, he could discern the vague outline of the man's crouched form.

"She was in this area for some time," Snape said, more to himself than to Harry. "Scattered signature, faint but consistent."

He had no real clue what Snape meant by that, nor did he understand how tracking spells worked at all, but he could at least infer the purpose for the comment. "Does the trail end here?"

"Perhaps," Snape conceded, though he still seemed intent on his work.

"What does that mean?"

"It _means_ the circumstances are rarely so simple."

Harry looked around, squinting at the skinny trunks of the nearby trees. "This is nothing like the Forbidden Forest," he commented. "The road is just there, so it's almost… out in the open."

"It would not be an ideal location to linger, no," the professor murmured, standing to full height. Suddenly, he went incredibly still, staring straight ahead; Harry followed his gaze, tense, but could see nothing of import.

Instinctively lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, "What is it?"

For a moment, the man ignored him, watching and waiting. Then, his gaze flicked to Harry. "There is a ward up ahead."

"What?" Harry said, straining his eyes to look. "How do you know?"

Without warning, Snape began walking further up the hill. With a sigh, he swallowed his questions, feet nearly slipping into a murky puddle as he ascended the same way.

As far as Harry could tell, there was nothing to see. Nothing but damp ground and swaying branches, dark shapes crafted from the shadows of leaves. He clutched his wand out of habit, the feel of it comforting despite the fact he knew he couldn't use it.

The professor stopped as abruptly as he'd started. " _Ostendo_."

Just as the last time Harry had seen the spell performed, a cord of white light emerged from between the trees and attached itself to his sternum. However, that time, instead of it being thread-like, it was as thick as a braided rope.

He looked at Snape. The man's face was cast in harsh light, illuminated by the glow of the magic. His cord was scrolled outward and he was frowning down at it, expression otherwise unreadable. Leery of copying the action, lest he attract Snape's considerable ire, Harry drew himself closer to the professor to chance a look, but…

It was blank. Where before Harry had seen row after row of runes and shapes and connections, now there was nothing there at all. Just an empty, glowing space.

"What does that mean?" he asked, attempting to break up the oppressive silence.

Snape ended the spell, drenching them in darkness yet again, and walked further ahead. This time, Harry didn't follow; before the light had gone out, he'd spotted something peculiar. Stepping over a puddle, he made his way to the place, sorting past the leaves to pick up the abandoned object.

It was a torch, he realized straight away. Clicking the button revealed that the batteries were dead.

Snape was watching him when he turned back. "Found a torch," he murmured by way of explanation.

The man lost interest in him and Harry turned the object over in his hands, a restless gesture. He wished he knew what was going on. The more time he spent out with Snape on these excursions, the more out of his depth he felt. He'd long had the habit of investigating and sticking his nose in where it didn't belong, but when confronted with a trail gone nearly a month old and unfamiliar magic, he was at a loss.

A thick droplet of rain hit his glasses as he wandered back to where Snape stood, the torch clutched tight in his hands. The professor was still and silent in the center of a small clearing, and beside him was-

"What is _that?_ " Harry blurted.

Lifting up toward the sky was an enormous, irregular funnel. He'd nearly mistaken it for a tree, since it was made up almost entirely of leaves and forest debris. The similarities ended there, however; the foliage all appeared to be frozen in midair, as if they had stuck onto some invisible structure. Like a motionless tornado, it stood as a monument, towering far above their heads.

Snape didn't spare him a glance as he said, "The foundation."

With a murmured incantation, he bade the rope of magic reappear, except that time the cord which was connected to him and Snape now had a definite source: The middle of that ominous thing.

Harry gulped. "Is warding magic normally this, erm…?" He wasn't at all certain how to describe what he was thinking.

The older man glanced at him, his impatient glare visible by the light of the cords. "No."

"Maybe…" Harry ventured, "This was a trap? One that's already been triggered?"

"Set by whom?" Snape shot back. "Regardless of his condition, Barty Crouch Jr. is not in the habit of setting elaborate traps for a mere student."

Harry's stomach plummeted. "I, uh. Think he _is,_ actually."

There was the barest of pauses before Snape's next reply. "Taking someone from the fortress of Hogwarts is quite the considerable venture, whereas taking a child from an obscure patch of wood, _without her wand,_ is hardly an effort at all."

He had a point. But Harry still felt rattled, thinking about what Crouch was capable of. "Well- Then, why's this here? Is… is she-?" _Dead,_ he didn't say.

Snape didn't reply, lifting his wand instead. " _Pertento._ "

Nothing happened, but Snape spoke as if something had. "The entire way, there is no evidence anyone was here except her."

"What are you even _looking_ at?!" Harry erupted, unable to endure any longer.

The man turned to sneer in his direction. "What exactly has that useless oaf been teaching, that you fail to grasp even the _very simplest_ of tracking charms?"

For a moment, Harry was confused about who he was referring to, but when the realization hit him he snarled, "Don't talk about Hagrid like that!"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "The fact you assumed I was referring to him instead of your _Charms professor_ rather proves the point, doesn't it?"

Harry flushed with anger and embarrassment; it was a cold comfort that Snape probably couldn't see it in the dark. "Don't make it out like-!"

"Pertento. Clear visualization. Steady wand." The man turned his back, an obvious dismissal. "If you cannot manage even _that_ much, then I fail to see how you will amount to _anything_."

"I can't cast any _magic_ out here, in case it slipped your mind!" Harry snapped.

The man snorted as he walked away. "That has hardly stopped you before."

It was infuriating, he decided, just how quickly Snape could turn his mood. A few well placed words and Harry felt ready to burst. Teeth clenched, he whirled to face the opposite direction, glaring so fiercely at the trees that a headache started to form.

"Potter."

The stern way his name was said was a contrast to the man's smug words, but Harry stopped himself from answering. The last thing he needed was another stupid fight; if Snape thought that he could-

" _Potter!_ " That single word lashed out at him like a whip. "Here. _Now._ "

There was a distinct edge to his tone, a strange _something_ which suggested urgency, despite the even and precise way the words were said. He couldn't place it, but Harry knew it should be obeyed.

Snape stood at the opposite end of the clearing. Harry approached with a suspicious glare, looking about, but there was still nothing much to see. Folding his arms, Harry gazed into the distance as if he were in contemplation just so he wouldn't have to look at the professor.

Despite his efforts to appear aloof, the man's next words drew his attention immediately.

"He was here."

Snape's voice was eerily calm. Like it was something he said every day. A casual observation. _He was here._ Like it was nothing. Perfectly comfortable announcing the arrival of a monster.

Harry shivered, pulling his arms even tighter across his chest. He wasn't in the habit of asking questions he already knew the answer to, and this was no exception.

"Don't lag behind," Snape ordered, continuing forward. Harry tamped down the urge to glance over his shoulder and followed the man's dim outline further into the forest. They crept forward at a much more cautious pace. Where he'd been moving more normally before, Snape was now making absolutely no sound. Harry tried to silence his own movements, but did not have much luck before they reached the second clearing.

Beyond Snape, he could see a wood cabin, the back of which was visible by scant moonlight. Sequestered within a small hollow, the building stood squat in the short grass, quiet. The feature that most drew his eye, however, was the collection of hundreds of gravestones which fanned outward from the cabin in a wide, irregular circle. They were densely packed, each marker a different shape and size, but they were lined up perfectly in their respective rows.

Though the cabin was small and overgrown, the place still had the look of recent use; as they drew closer, Harry could see laundry hanging out to dry, fences with new coats of paint, and headstones with clean, well-kept facades. His last trip to a graveyard had been less than ideal… The image of Cedric, pale and still, was conjured to his mind before he could fully quell it. The mental comparison set him on edge, despite how cared-for his surroundings appeared.

As he and Snape passed halfway through the sea of gravestones, a hideous smell accosted him. He blew out of a puff of air to get rid of it, but his next inhale was worse than the previous. Harry coughed; the short noise got him a glare from Snape, but did nothing to help him escape the smell. Covering his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his robes, his voice was muffled when he said, "Can't you smell that?"

The man wasn't looking in his direction. "Yes."

The pungency made his eyes water, his throat heavy and constricted as he croaked, "What _is_ that?"

Snape stopped, using an arm to block Harry's path. "Stay here," he demanded. "Do not come any closer to the house."

"What?" Harry frowned, though the expression was entirely hidden behind his hand. "Why?"

The professor's glare swiftly turned more severe. "Do you, or do you _not,_ know how to do as you are told, _Order member?_ "

It was the first time he'd ever seriously called him that. Taken aback, Harry stayed silent.

Snape's arm shot out toward him so quickly that he flinched, but after a moment he saw that the man was holding out a wand, the same he'd given Harry before. He reached out automatically, but stopped before he touched it, his fingers curling back inward.

"Take it," the professor snapped, impatient.

Harry looked him in the eye. "Whatever's in that house, I have to go with you."

"Your sense of entitlement truly knows no bounds," Snape spat, his grip on the wand tightening.

"It's not-" Harry cut himself off, grimacing. "I have to go, not because- not because I _want_ to, but-" He paused, searching for his words. "Isn't it my duty? _As_ an Order member?"

"That title is spurious at best when applied to _you-_ "

"If I were anyone else," Harry interrupted, resolute, "would you still treat me like a burden?"

Snape stared at him. "Now is not the time for theatrics."

"If I was Tonks, or Kingsley, or- or Remus?" Harry soldiered on. "Would you tell me to stay put?"

"Excepting Lupin, they are experienced professionals." This was accompanied by a glare. " _You_ are not."

"They got that experience by _doing_ things," was his firm counter. "If I wanted to wait around in safety and security, I'd be at Hogwarts right now!"

"Then perhaps you should be."

Snape's gaze was piercing. Harry opened his mouth to object, but all that came out was a cough. The smell seemed to build up, clogging his nose.

The professor jabbed the handle of the wand into Harry's chest; he grabbed it on reflex. "Take it and go back."

" _You_ said if I couldn't manage this much, I wouldn't amount to anything-!" Harry accused.

"Are you as thoroughly incapable of understanding context as you are following orders?"

"I'm _not_ leaving!"

He'd practically shouted it, gripping the borrowed wand hard enough to make his fingers ache.

Snape glowered at him before he straightened, looking down his nose as if Harry were an insect. If it was meant to be intimidating, he didn't waver.

The professor's anger and disgust was evident in his tone when he turned away. "Never let it be said that I gave you permission."

With that, he walked away, leaving Harry standing alone, tense and troubled. He sucked in a breath of fetid air, struggling to make sense of the exchange.

Snape's behavior was becoming less and less predictable… What did he care if Harry went in the house? Did he expect him to blunder in and ruin evidence or something? If that was it, then why did he bother giving Harry a wand? If he went back to Hogwarts early, wouldn't it reflect badly on Snape, from Dumbledore's perspective?

His head hurt. Best to just focus on the task at hand.

The stench grew worse and worse the closer they got to the cabin. The windows on the back side were as dark as Snape's silhouette and, as they rounded the corner, a foul wind sent bile rushing to the back of his throat. He clamped his hand harder over his nose, but it did nothing to quell his mounting nausea; the smell was so strong that he could taste it.

There was a soft, squishy contact with the sole of his shoe. The feel of it alone sent a shiver of revulsion straight up his leg; another wave of odor flowed up to him - enough to nearly knock him flat on his back.

Lifting his foot revealed the horror beneath: A cracked skull lay beneath him, a dark hole where an eye should have been. The patchwork of soft flesh sliding from the dead creature's head was clinging to his heel as if it intended to pull him down to the ground with it.

Harry violently reared back, the torch landing into the grass with a dull thump as he dropped it, his disgust so absolute that it seemed to take control of his body. He swallowed the thick lump in his throat as the clouds parted and moonlight flooded the surrounding area.

Bloated. Deformed. _Rancid_. The bodies - all of them, scattered amongst rubble from obliterated grave markers. The remains were smeared across the ground in a wide circle, dotted with jagged pieces of stone, splintered wood, and blackened grass.

He thought they were human at first, until he spotted one with a vague facsimile of four legs. Its limbs were hitched up toward the sky, propelled there by the rest of the body's bloat. Its fur - matted, damp, and hideous - lay in clumps atop its skin, and the chest appeared concave, spilling into itself. Half devoured, half decayed.

They looked like… massive dogs. Bigger even than Sirius - a thought which made his stomach churn all the more. And the _smell._ It was unbearable. _All_ of it was. He'd seen death, he'd seen violence and torture, but he'd never seen… _this._ It took everything in him to not wretch up there and then. He couldn't say what kept him together, other than Snape's looming presence; he didn't need to hand the professor any more weapons to use against him.

He inched forward, not only terrified of taking a wrong step but also of being left behind. Navigation was difficult; the bodies were numerous and the scene was saturated with them, though the greatest carnage was found closer to the front door.

Snape was a mere ten feet away, stopped at the front stoop of the house. The dark outline of his body obscured whatever was beyond, and Harry wondered if it was really something he needed to see. He grimaced, the expression tight on his face. Perhaps it would have been wiser to do as he'd been told, to return to Hogwarts. But he'd come this far - If he couldn't manage to brave this, how could he possibly hope to be of use to the Order? How could he say he was ready to fight, without witnessing just what that would entail?

It took four careful strides to reach Snape's side. Despite his determination, he wished he hadn't moved at all.

This one was unmistakably human. Or- as human as one could reasonably appear to be, having suffered so much damage. The man, if his clothes were anything to go by, lay across the stoop. His long jacket was in tatters, a million tiny holes collecting together across the fabric. There were insects everywhere, hundreds flying or crawling, burrowing in to take any piece of the body they could find.

The… _fluids_ \- an appalling array of orange, black and yellow - had spread outwards from the husks of unraveling flesh that had once been his legs and arms, haloing him and soaking into the wooden front steps of his doorway. The wood itself appeared so warped and corroded that the weight of the body had caused a divot beneath it. It was as stained as his skin, so marred and discolored that it appeared to meld into the dark.

Harry shuddered as his eyes were drawn to the worst part: The man no longer had a face. Most of it had sloughed off onto the front steps as well, connected only by spindles of decay so fine and delicate they looked like webbing. There was nothing left to identify him as a person anymore. Nothing that could spark recognition or set him apart.

Just a body come undone.

He stared with wide eyes, unable to look away. Was… was this what it looked like? To rot away? If he'd left Cedric's body in the graveyard, would he have become-? Could this be what _Sirius_ looked like, on the other side of the Veil?

" _Breathe._ "

The command wrested his eyes from the scene to look at Snape. He blinked, confused at the directive until he focused on the task, and realized he was hyperventilating.

That knowledge did nothing to help him, however. He seemed to have forgotten how to control his lungs. All he could do was fix his eyes to the buttons on Snape's neck, helpless.

"Potter."

He couldn't reply. It was too much. It was _too much,_ and he should never have-

Snape grabbed his arm very suddenly, wrenching it away from his face. On instinct, Harry moved to twist out of his grip, but the man held fast.

" _Ad Aliud Aura Amplexus._ "

He was released just as suddenly. Harry instantly raised his hand again to plug his nose, afraid he might truly sick up if he didn't, but this arm passed through something. Looking down, he saw the lower half of this face was encased by a clear barrier which clung to his skin, reaching down past his neck.

When he finally allowed himself to breathe, Harry was greeted with clean air, entirely devoid of the stench. Though his breaths were still erratic, the interruption of his thoughts allowed him room to steady somewhat.

It helped that he could look at Snape instead of the corpse. "Isn't the Bubble-Head Charm a self spell?" he asked, inane, his voice shakier than he might have liked.

"Normally." That was all the professor said, turning away to return to his own business. Harry couldn't help but feel grateful; Snape's scrutiny was uncomfortable at best.

Rooted in place, Harry shoved his face into his hands, rubbing his eyes with the blunt end of his palms until shapes blossomed behind his eyelids. He had to hold it together. As… as horrifying as all of it was, he couldn't fall apart. If he did, _so_ many more would die…

He sucked in a quick gasp, eyes flying open. "Violet!" he exclaimed, though he had the presence of mind to look at Snape instead of the ground. "Is…" His voice petered out to a whisper. "Is she _here?_ "

Snape was standing beside the entryway when he answered, "She was."

"Was?" Harry latched onto the word.

"From what I can piece together," he began, peering toward the treeline. "Miss Ayers was wandering the forest alone before she was captured."

Harry frowned. "But- we saw her leave with Barty…?"

"Perhaps she managed to elude him," Snape commented, though his tone suggested he didn't think it likely. "The ward in the forest was rife with her signature, but we know she did not have a wand."

"Accidental magic, then?" Harry surmised.

"Possibly. Instinctive magic is invariably linked to heightened emotion, and a chase may have provided just such conditions," came his reply. "In any case, there was no trail but her own… for the majority."

 _He was here._ Just the memory of those words made his skin crawl. "Why would Voldemort leave her alive?" Harry asked, his eyes drawn to the dark blotches on the side of the house.

Snape did not answer immediately, instead stepping over the rotted husk of one of the creatures to examine the epicenter of the destruction; it was the only patch of ground that wasn't blackened or bloodstained.

"Both trails end here. If Miss Ayers's body were nearby, her signature would linger, but there is no sign of her at all. It would be plausible to assume a Disapparition occurred."

"Is Apparition, er, I don't know… traceable?"

Snape glanced his way. "Not several weeks after the fact."

"Then," he murmured, distraught. "It really is a dead end this time. All this… was for nothing."

"An end, but not a loss." Snape's gaze fell on Harry. "The Dark Lord does not make appearances for nothing."

He sounded _much_ too familiar with the concept for Harry's comfort; he shivered, half from cold and half from fear, and that was when he heard it: A shuffling, scraping sort of sound, followed by a ragged exhale. He went on instant alert, whirling to stare at the opening that lead into the house.

Snape passed by him with wand drawn. For a tense few seconds, they stared into darkness, watching. Then, a familiar sort of sound, like the bright ring of a handchime, echoed out to them. In the scant moonlight, Harry spotted the shape of another dog-creature, only this one was _moving._

"It's alive," Harry gasped, gripping his borrowed wand tight as he moved closer. When the thing opened its maw to let out another rambling jingle, he could see rows and rows of thin, sharp teeth filled the creature's mouth, bared and gleaming. The very sight of it gave Harry pause, and he remembered- he'd seen this kind of creature before.

"A bellhound," Snape intoned, passing his wand light over the creature.

"A what?"

"Bellhound," the professor repeated with a touch of impatience. "Magical creatures which feed on spiritual energy."

Harry grimaced. "If all it eats is 'spiritual energy', then what's it need hundreds of teeth for?"

"To tear you limb from limb," Snape replied, droll. "They hunt in packs, searching out wandering spirits and ushering the dead by eating their bodies and burying the bones. If a spirit remains tethered to a body, and the hounds are starving, they are known to separate them by force."

The grotesque surroundings ought to have been a fitting meal, then, but the creature certainly didn't look well fed. Its body was gaunt; it hardly looked able to stand, much less attack. Harry's wand drooped in his hand as he assumed a neutral stance, inclining his head over his shoulder. "So… you suppose that's the rest of the pack?"

"That seems likely."

He stared at the creature curled up on the floorboards, watching its every rattling breath. Its eyes were pure white, lacking pupils, but somehow Harry knew it was looking directly at him. Like it knew who he was. What sort of creature _was_ this, really? Despite its off-putting appearance, Harry felt as if it were drawing him in, leading him closer…

Snape's voice disrupted his reverie. He was crossing the gap between himself and the hound, drawing his wand up. "It would have been better for it to die with the rest."

Harry's gaze snapped in the professor's direction. "What?" When the man didn't stop, he took a step forward, an urgent breath escaping him. " _Wait!_ "

Thankfully, the man stopped, but it was only to glare at him. "Save your objections."

"Are you mad? You can't just _kill_ it!" Harry snapped, disturbed that Snape wasn't aware of the obvious.

"You are naive if you think it will last the night."

"I'm naive for not wishing death on an animal?" he shot back, heated. "Right- here's hoping I stay 'naive' forever, then."

" _You_ lack understanding," Snape informed him, tone crisp as he gestured toward the creature. "Without its master and its companions, it will either starve to death or begin attacking the local Muggle population. As it has yet to do the latter, it's been wasting away. For weeks, perhaps. Do you intend to let its suffering continue, Potter?"

"No! But that doesn't mean it has to _die!_ " Harry's fists clenched as he strode forward, placing himself between the hound and Snape. "It deserves to live after- after _everything_ it's been through, doesn't it?"

"Does it." The man's tone was flat.

"Of course it does!" Harry insisted, growing more upset. "How can you call yourself an Order member if you don't even think people's lives _matter?_ "

Snape scowled, his grip on his wand tightening. "It is not a person."

"IT'S ALIVE!" He felt close to panic; he couldn't stand to see any more death. Not then, and not ever. "Don't kill it. _Don't._ "

"It would be a _mercy,_ Potter," was the man's caustic reply. "Nothing more can be done."

Harry lifted his chin, stalwart and unwavering. " _No._ "

Snape was livid; Harry could tell by how still he was, the intensity of his hateful glower. He expected retribution - Harry had clasped the wand in his hand in anticipation - but all he received was a snort of disgust as the man turned away, pacing out toward the gravestones that were still intact.

Harry's posture deflated. When he lowered the wand, he realized his hands were shaking.

A sluggish, tinkling sound started up behind him, and he turned to look at the hound. Its massive head rolled to the side, as if it was too exhausted to hold it up, and its eyes were fixed to Harry's feet.

Casting a wary glance at Snape, who had stopped a short distance away with his back turned, Harry moved to approach the beast, his footfalls careful on the steps. It merely watched, blinking and breathing slowly, as he entered the house. Lighting the wand, he could see its hind legs were long and spindly, but therein laid the problem: They were badly broken, and a large, crusted gash across its back matched the trajectory of a slash, as if someone had cut through it with a sword.

He'd felt confident in what he wanted to do, right up until that point. The damage was… extensive. Who was he kidding, really? He didn't have the first clue how to treat wounds deeper than a paper cut. Did magical creatures even react to healing spells and potions the same way wizards did? Harry had no idea.

Still. He had to try.

The creature had claws the size of his head. He swallowed his fear, kneeling beside it as slowly as he possibly could, and raised the wand over the hound's legs.

His incantation was feather light. " _Tergeo._ "

The blood lifted from the creature as expected, but, unfortunately, it was all made up of hard, crusted bits which were clumped with fur and clinging to sensitive skin; the animal flinched and Harry dropped the spell instantly. _Bad idea._

"Sorry," he whispered on impulse. The creature released a gusty sigh.

Harry had a vague idea that the wound should be clean before it was bandaged up, but didn't know any that were gentle enough not to hurt. _However…_

He rose to his feet, turning his wand light further into the house. There, through a door on the left, was a kitchen. Harry retrieved a dirty cloth from the counter, a quick _Scourgify_ rendering it like new, and turned on the tap. The water was very cold, so he filled a pot and set it on the gas stove to warm. Harry next set about looking for something to use for bandages, but there was no tablecloth, no curtains. All he could find in the cupboards were canned vegetables, a sack of rotten potatoes, and a cast iron pan.

Taking hold of the pan, he turned it over in his hands. The metal was dense, heavy; something like that would create quite a lot of cloth for bandages, if he could manage the transfiguration. In principle, it was a lot easier than the human transfigurations McGonagall was having them do… Harry blinked. Thinking of Hogwarts, his friends, his classes… It was all very distant, to him. As if it had happened years ago, instead of yesterday. His prior challenges and worries, all barely of import.

He frowned. The water was boiling. He turned off the flame, staring at the surface of the water as the bubbles trickled out and it became still. Dipping the hand towel into the water, he laid it by the sink to cool, steam rising from its surface in gentle curls. That done, he took the pot and pan in both hands, traveling back to deposit them beside the hound.

When he emerged back into the entryway, he saw Snape crouched beside the creature's head. A shard of fear spiked through Harry, and he barked, "What are you doing?!"

He cursed himself for not suspecting the man's betrayal. _Shite,_ he'd even left the wand in the kitchen! How stupid could he possibly _be?_ "Get away from it!" he demanded, striding quickly forward with every intention to give the murdering arsehole a face full of boiling water-

But the bellhound's massive ribcage expanded before it let loose another sigh, its breath hitting Snape's face and displacing his hair. The man performed a squinting grimace first and glared at Harry second.

He stopped, the hot water sloshing a bit on the floorboards, but his suspicion did not abate. "What were you doing," he repeated this time, his voice having gone dead flat.

The professor did not grace him with an answer, his expression altogether sour as he rose from his crouch. "I could ask you the same, Potter."

Harry set the pot and pan on the ground, watching the scene carefully. "I'm cleaning its wounds."

Snape's eyes looked entirely devoid of color, dark as the night was. "Her."

He frowned. "What?"

"She is female," the man commented, looking down at it. "And those wounds are festering."

Harry looked. It was hard to tell in the dark, even harder with all the blood-caked fur clumping around the cuts but… When he squinted, he could catch the slightest hint of pus curling around the edges of the wounds, the skin red and raw. He didn't know much, but "festering" certainly sounded bad. If he wasn't sure how to handle normal wounds, he was even less certain how to deal with _that._

Still, eyeing Snape once, he went to retrieve what he'd left behind. When he returned, the professor was standing in the same spot, wand held loosely in one hand. Harry placed his own wand on the ground, allowing it to light up the space, and approached the bellhound with warm cloth in hand.

Snape watched him, displeased. "Did you not hear what I just said?"

"I heard," he confirmed, his tone snotty. "But I have to do something, since _you_ won't."

"Your efforts are pointless," came the reply, "and will accomplish nothing but prolonging the hound's anguish."

"I don't care what you think." Harry's movements were slow and careful. He touched the cloth to the wound on the animal's abdomen; it did not react.

"She is beyond saving, Potter."

" _Nothing_ is beyond saving," Harry murmured, defiant. He dabbed at the dried blood and pus, placing his free hand atop the hound's thigh. Her fur was coarse and wiry, but her skin was warm.

There was quiet for some time. He couldn't say for how long, but he was at least able to towel off some of the dirt and grime from the bellhound without interruption from Snape. Such was the filth and rot that Harry had to _Scourgify_ the cloth several times throughout the process. It was a strange situation, Snape glaring a hole through the back of Harry's head while a dozen corpses rotted outside. He tried not to think too hard about it.

At length, it was Harry who spoke first, tired of the silence. "How did you know she was a girl?"

The pause was long enough that he gave up on expecting an reply, but Snape, oddly enough, did answer. "Her memories."

Harry dipped the cloth in the pot again; the water wasn't particularly hot any longer, but at least it wasn't freezing. "You can tell that from someone's memories?"

"She gave birth to most of the pack," the professor explained.

"Oh."

As he wiped the gash on her leg, her clawed foot twitched. Hesitating, he continued on, until Snape addressed him.

"What is it you intend to do with this creature?"

Harry sighed. "Not kill it, if that's what you're asking."

"Will you leave Hogwarts to nurse it back to health?"

He shot a glare over his shoulder. " _No._ I'll find her a good caretaker."

"Where?" Snape scoffed. "It is nigh impossible to find someone with enough _benevolence_ to take in a beast such as this."

"I could take her to Lovelle," Harry argued. "She had one in-"

"The animal cannot even stand, much less traverse the length of the wards around her residence," was his counter. "And that is assuming she can be trusted to keep it alive."

"Well then- Hagrid! He would know how to take care of-"

"A dark creature, on school grounds? Amid children as young as eleven? He would be relieved of his post immediately, if not returned to Azkaban."

Frustrated, Harry shouted, "There has to be _someone!_ The- the Order medic-"

"- is trained to tend to humans, not animals."

"Dumbledore must know someone who-"

"You are grasping at straws, Potter," was Snape's cruel reply. "There is no one."

" _Fine!_ I'll- _I'll_ do it." He could feel moisture gathering in his eyes, but he stared fiercely at the hound's body beside him, determined not to look weak in front of Snape again. "If there's no one else, then there's me."

He sucked in a bracing breath; the air was clear, thanks to Snape's spell, but he could hardly find it in him to be grateful when the man was so utterly devoid of compassion otherwise.

Harry ran a hand over the bellhound's fur, patchy as it was. It was a soothing gesture, though perhaps more for him than for her. The creature shivered, turning her head to the side to stare at Harry with one milky eye. He wasn't sure how he could tell, but, sitting there next to the beast, his hand on her back, he felt… connected to her. He felt certain that she knew he was trying to help.

He also knew she was in horrible, horrible pain.

Stepping away, he searched his mind for something, _anything_ he could do. If Hermione were there, she would know, but Harry? Despite all he'd been through, despite all his years at Hogwarts, he was helpless.

Harry picked up the wand and the pan. Even if he had no idea what he was doing, even if it really was pointless, as Snape had said, giving up wasn't an option. The pan unraveled in his hand, turning to linen as instructed. The sheet was quite large and thick when it emerged, much more than he needed, but he tore strips from it anyway.

As he settled beside the bellhound once more, Harry felt rather than saw Snape's approach. Tensing, he clutched the strips of cloth in his hand, as if he might snatch them any second, but the man merely knelt beside the creature, waving a hand to soundlessly conjure a wooden bowl.

Wary, he watched as Snape pulled a glass bottle from a pocket, pouring its contents into the basin. The liquid was goopy and speckled with plant matter, color a pastel purple; Harry had never seen a potion like it.

There was also a _lot_ of it, he realized as the bottle emptied, the potion filling the bowl nearly to the rim. Then, Snape's hand shot out, upward facing, as he offered Harry a bland, expectant look. He gripped the cloth in his hands tighter.

"What are you doing?" he questioned for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

Snape's reply was impatient. "What does it look like, Potter?"

"It _looks_ like you've spent the last hour drilling into my head how useless I am and how this is all just some big inconvenience for you."

Snape glared. "I am hardly the villain you're looking for."

Harry snorted. "Right. If you say so."

A heavy silence passed between them, brief but palpable. He stared the professor down, unmoving and, much to his surprise, the man relented.

"If you _must_ know," he spat, "it is a numbing agent."

Harry frowned. "Why?"

"The answer to that should be plainly obvious."

"No, why are _you_ doing this?"

"Every moment you spend interrogating me is passed in agony for this creature, you understand."

He grit his teeth, strangling the strips of cloth with the force of his anger. "You think I don't know that? I don't _trust_ you!"

"You have made that abundantly clear."

"Well if that's so _clear,_ then why don't you-?"

The professor dragged the tip of his wand diagonally across his palm, an incision splitting the skin. He scooped a glob of potion onto the cut before returning the force of his glare to Harry.

"Will that suffice, Potter?" he uttered, anger underpinning his words. "Or do you believe me unhinged enough to poison myself?"

Harry seriously considered it, and that deliberation must have shown on his face, since Snape made a noise of disgust. "It seems to have eluded you that my _original conceit_ was to _spare_ the hound the miserable existence you hope to preserve."

"That's not-!"

"In lieu of that solution, this one is _second_ best," he interrupted, closing up the cut he'd made on his hand.

Disgruntled, Harry stared first at the professor and then down at the bowl. It was his choice, he supposed - to take Snape's word or not. He probably wasn't lying; that much he could surmise from the fact that Dumbledore wouldn't be pleased to hear he'd murdered an animal in front of Harry. Still, it was the principle of the thing, wasn't it? Snape wasn't the sort to do anything that didn't directly benefit himself - so, what was all this, really? The warning to stay away from the house, the Bubble-Head Charm, the potion… The fact that he'd yet to say a single word to anyone about Harry's meltdown… Even if it was all just incidental, the more Snape defied expectations, the more Harry felt like he was walking into an elaborate trap.

The bellhound released a shaky, tinkling whine, and he placed a hand atop her ribcage. Snape was right about one thing, at least: Every second of indecision was hurting her. Confused as he was, there was really no choice at all.

"Fine." He unclenched his fingers, passing the cloth strips to Snape. "What do you want me to do?"

Rather than answering, the man showed him instead. Taking a two-finger scoop of the potion, he administered it directly to one of the smaller wounds on the hound's leg. When it was fully coated, a murmured _Ferula_ wrapped the cloth around it securely. Without further prompting, Harry copied the procedure.

Side by side, they administered the potion to as many abrasions as they could find. There was no question that it was working as intended; after completing the first bandaging, he couldn't feel his fingers at all. Regardless, it was worth it; he continued on, every swipe of the potion releasing a bit of tension in her frame.

Before long, the bellhound was coated in enough bandages to appear mummified. When there were no longer any wounds to tend to, Harry sat back on his knees, eyes glued to the edge of the bubble at his neck. Snape was finishing the smaller cuts and scratches when Harry spoke. "What did you see?" he asked, subdued. "In her memories?"

The professor's gaze flicked momentarily in his direction. "A massacre."

Harry winced, eyes unwittingly drawn to the gruesome scene outside. "I don't mean- You said she was a mother. So… What else did you see?"

Snape concluded his ministrations with a wordless flourish of his wand, wrapping the affected area with linen. "I do believe I made it clear that the subtle art of Legilimency is not mind-reading, Potter."

 _Subtle?_ He about beat Harry over the head with it for a solid six months! "I know that!" he retorted. "But- still…"

"It is not a parlor trick; it is a weapon."

"What does that even _mean?_ " he balked. "Look, all I want is- is a memory. Just one. A _good_ one. A memory… _worth_ remembering."

Snape's expression was blank. "And you expect me to provide one?"

"I'm not expecting anything," Harry sighed, drained. "It was only a question."

With that, he stood, going to the kitchen to rinse off the gooey potion from his hands. The water from the tap was freezing on his wrists and his body suddenly remembered how cold he felt, goosepimples spreading up his arms. Drying his hands on his robes, he returned to the hound's side. Snape was standing again, the bowl and potion gone. With no preamble at all, he began speaking.

"This creature is three hundred years old." His eyes were trained at the ground in front of him. Harry sank back down beside the bellhound, stroking whatever fur he could find amid the swaths of bandages, merely listening. "She lived on a bloody battlefield, as most of her kind do, but she wandered alone, feeding on scraps. A century and a half ago, a Barghest rescued her from hunters and gave her a home, gathering many other solitary creatures whose packs were broken by human expansion."

"A Barghest?"

"A wizard, of a sort. They are shepherds of spirits, masters of strange creatures. Their order is both secretive and solitary; as such, the sight of one is considered an omen of death."

"Oh." Harry swallowed, his throat feeling thick.

The bellhound turned to look at them both, her eyelids drooping low as Snape continued. "Her strongest memories are of her master. Even in death, she refused to leave his side."

A sinking, sorrowful feeling fell right into his stomach, and Harry's hand twitched against the hound's fur as he contemplated the pile of rot fallen in the doorway. Despite not being able to smell it any longer, Harry felt sick all over again.

"Her memories confirmed my suspicion that Miss Ayers was taken alive. Otherwise, there is nothing more to tell."

The horrible feeling grew about ten times worse. "Then- If he took her, she's… dead."

"That would entirely depend on the purpose for her capture," Snape remarked.

"Well, she's Muggleborn, right? What other reason does he need?"

"If he had intended to kill her for a reason so banal, he would have done so here and sent the Dark Mark into the sky."

He sure seemed to know a lot about it, Harry mused, uneasy. A shiver overtook him, and he crossed his arms, trying hard not to cry. The sentence had been spoken so clinically, but the horror was far too fresh. He could still see the putrid mess outside; without the distraction of taking care of the hound, Harry was left with nothing but his swirling thoughts.

They were dangerous company already, but they grew even worse when Snape announced, "You will need to make your own way back, Potter."

The cold hand of dread seized him, then; Snape's expression had gone fully blank, entire frame wound tight. "What do you mean?"

"I am not at liberty to accompany you."

 _What?_ Harry's confusion and fear mingled. "You're leaving me _alone?_ Where are you going?"

" _Do not linger,_ do you understand? This place is not safe."

Harry stood up, chest heaving. "Where are you going?!" he questioned, afraid. He took an aggressive step forward, but Snape took a mirrored step back, his next words measured and precise.

"When you give your report to the Headmaster, you will tell him I was called."

Harry felt like he'd had the breath sucked out of him. "What did you just say?" he intoned. "Called by _who?_ "

No answer came and Harry's shout boomed across the space, " _Who?!_ "

Snape's stare bore down on him, pinning him in place. Without another word, he vanished, his Disapparition silent, carried by the breeze. By the time Harry's shock and terror had abated and he was able to tear his eyes away from the space where a Death Eater had stood, the bellhound was already dead.

••••••••••

He couldn't get over it.

Days later, the smell lingered. No matter how many times he aired out a room, cleaned his robes, scrubbed at his skin… It was always there, every breath a reminder.

When Monday came, the thought of attending classes was daunting at best. He didn't feel up to any of them, really, but the primary source of his dread was Potions. He couldn't endure Snape's presence. Not that day… perhaps not _any_ day, ever again. He'd had his suspicions for a long while, but to have them confirmed? It made even the distant sight of him at meals turn Harry's stomach.

Still, Hermione wasn't pleased.

"Harry," she was saying, her tone quite stern as she plucked an apple from the breakfast table. "We're harvesting Snargaluff pods today, and there's that Potions essay due… You _need_ to come to class."

He pushed his eggs about his plate, not looking at her. "I'm not feeling well."

"I think you know Snape doesn't care for excuses," she pointed out. Then, after a pause, her voice softened. "Harry… are you sure you're alright? You've been really…"

She didn't finish her sentence, but, considering he'd hardly strung three words together the entire weekend, Harry had an idea what she meant. It made him feel like a horrible friend. "I'm okay," he lied. "If I get a note from Madam Pomfrey, I won't get in trouble."

"There's still the essay," she reminded him, fretting. "I can turn it in for you-"

It had been so far from his mind that he hadn't even picked up a quill to begin with, but he was saved from having to tell her that by the arrival of Ron. It wasn't much of a reprieve; the atmosphere between them turned instantly frosty.

"Morning Harry," Ron greeted him, his omission of Hermione plain. "Pancakes today? _Nice!_ "

Across the table, Hermione's lips were pressed into a thin line. Harry, in an attempt to bridge the gap, said, "Hermione's here too."

Ron's bland gaze fell on her. "Oh, yeah? So she is."

"Good morning, _Ronald,_ " she addressed him, her shoulders squared. "This is quite an early start, for you."

"Yeah, you know, I'm full of surprises."

Hermione's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I was just telling Harry here about how going to his classes is important. You wouldn't have any input, would you?"

Ron took a swig of Harry's untouched pumpkin juice. "Not really. But say, do you suppose your next club meeting will be as much of a debacle as the last?"

Hermione turned a horrible shade of red, looking about ready to throttle him. Harry jumped up from his seat, tense. "I'd better be off to the Hospital Wing."

The redhead turned a look of concern toward Harry. "Alright, mate? She didn't say you were _sick._ " This last word was uttered with a glare toward Hermione.

"It's fine, nothing that serious," he insisted, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Hermione let her arms fall akimbo, staring at him pointedly. "If it's not serious, you should go to-"

" _No!_ " he snapped, tired of it. "Stop asking. Please."

Her face fell and he quickly regretted his attitude. "Hermione, I'm-"

"No, no," she replied, stepping back. "You carry on here. I'm going ahead to Herbology."

An angry sort of confidence possessed her as she turned on her heel and strutted away, head held high. Sighing, Harry rubbed his eyes.

"Smooth," Ron commented. "But whatever, she's been mental about school this and school that-"

"You don't have to be such a prat to her, you know," Harry countered, irritated. "She's only worried about us, but you get hostile with her all the time-"

"Says the bloke who just shut her down," Ron argued. "Don't act all high and mighty when you know she annoys you too!"

"I didn't mean to snap at her; it's you always picking a fight!"

Ron paused to glare at him. "Weren't you going to see Madam Pomfrey?"

Harry snatched his bag off the table, glad for the opening to quit the situation entirely. As he was walking away, Ron sarcastically called after him, "Have fun!"

He didn't go to the Hospital Wing. Not much point and, besides, he just wanted to be alone, somewhere removed from… _everything._ A headache was already in full bloom on his skull, and he'd only just got out of bed.

He wandered for a short while, but that palled; there were too many people about, most especially staff who might send him off to class. Then, a singular thought lifted his mood: He could visit Hedwig. Life had been so hectic and busy that he hadn't made much time for her… Bit _terrible_ of him as her owner, he thought with a frown, but not even that could dampen his enthusiasm for the visit.

The Owlery smelled of cloves and refuse. A hundred owls were gathered on perches, fluttering about the rafters, or eating insects or mice. Hedwig was hard to pick out of the crowd, despite her bright white coloring, but it didn't particularly matter, since she ended up finding him.

Alighting on his shoulder, she leaned down to nibble at his pocket, looking for treats. Too tense to laugh or smile, Harry merely reached up a hand to stroke her head, admiring the feel of her feathers against his fingers.

From off to his left, he heard a voice wilt in his ear, breathy and wistful. "Oh! Harry."

A quick look around revealed the source: Lounging in nearby windowsill and haloed by early morning sunlight was Luna. With one leg dangling over the edge and the other curled underneath her, she appeared to be comfortable, despite her precarious position. Her back was pressed against a large, half-opened window, though which dozens of owls were swooping in and out. Quite high up, Harry guessed that her knees would match the height of his shoulders.

Most notable, perhaps, was her attire. Her school robes were entirely white, as if the pigment had been drained out of them. Even her Ravenclaw crest was devoid of color. Lopsided atop her mass of wavy hair was a crown of flowers. They were made up of two different shapes, unevenly arranged, and possessing pink and yellow hues. The only bit of color she wore.

Harry felt bad for staring so long, but he wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. Not waiting for him to respond, her lips twitched into a small smile. "Hello."

"Hallo," he parroted back, eyebrows lifting.

He observed as her eyes swept over him, pensive. "You're rather dim today."

Dim? Bit rude of her to say, wasn't it? He frowned, adjusting Hedwig's stance on his shoulder. "Um. Sure?"

Her head tilted slightly, upsetting the daisy-chain and letting it fall against her shoulder. "You glow, usually," she told him, frowning. "So I can catch you long before you arrive. Not today, though. Hm." Her eyes glanced toward the ceiling. "I'm sorry for that."

He didn't have the faintest clue what she meant, but Harry supposed he didn't really need to. "What're you doing up here?" he asked.

She leveled in with a look, one borne of both confusion and incredulity. "I'm in mourning. Can't you tell?" Her words belied no sorrow or grief whatsoever.

He cast his gaze at her robes, perplexed. "Not really," he admitted as Hedwig walked down his arm to perch in the crook of his elbow.

"Weird."

The audacity of that word, coming from her, wrested a light snort from him. "Right, uhm… What is it I've missed?"

She gestured to her attire as if it was somehow supposed to clue him in and, when he stared at her blankly, she tilted her head. "White's for mourning," she informed him, her voice going dreamy again. "So are tulips and carnations."

He assumed those were the flowers at her shoulder. "Right. Guess I've never been to a wizard funeral, so… I wouldn't know."

She blinked. "What makes you think it has to do with wizards?"

It occurred to him he'd never been to any _Muggle_ funerals either. "Er, think I saw on telly once that Muggles wear black when they're mourning?" he commented, unsure. "I don't really know much about it."

"Maybe the English," she murmured, appearing thoughtful. "But other countries have different colors that mean mourning, too. I just happen to agree with white."

"Seems as good a color as any," he mused. The owl on his arm trilled, unhappy with being ignored, and he smoothed his fingers over her wings. "I think Hedwig agrees."

"Owls would know," she agreed, her eyes drifting to Hedwig with a bit of reverence.

He stared at his pet, eyes meeting hers. "Whatever she knows, she hasn't told me," Harry remarked, wry. "But- anyway, I didn't mean to uh, interrupt your…"

Her head shook, the delicate movement shifting the flower crown to the girl's lap, a few strands of blonde hair clinging to it. "Oh, it's no interruption, Harry."

"Your ehm… flower… thing," he made a vague gesture in her direction, cringing as his sentence ended lamely: "It's falling."

Her brow furrowed at him as she peered his way. "I know."

"Oh." Harry shifted his weight.

She glanced between the flowers and him before asking, "Would you come here, please?"

Intrigued by the request, Harry complied, drawing closer to Luna's window perch. When he reached her, gaze expectant, she sat up and placed the flower crown on his head.

"That's better," she announced with a warm smile.

Surprised, he held his neck very stiffly, willing it not to fall off. "Um… thanks. But, are you sure- I mean, you mentioned they were part of…?"

"Part of?" she echoed.

He had no idea what the etiquette was, here. "Your… I don't know. Mourning outfit?"

"I can share," she told him, her voice so light he was surprised he could even hear it. "You look a bit like you're in mourning, too."

He had no idea what his face must have looked like in that moment, but Luna's concerned expression told him he hadn't done a very good job hiding the jumbled thoughts which had surfaced in his mind. "I'm…" Harry's voice faded; he couldn't muster the energy to lie. Beside that, it felt incredibly wrong to do so, when Luna herself was generally so candid. "Yeah."

She was staring at his hands, oddly enough. "That must be hard."

"I'm used to it," he remarked, trying not to sound so grim. Harry leaned his elbow atop the windowsill as Hedwig nudged at his pocket again. "If you don't mind me asking, what is it you're mourning for?"

"Oh, well," she sighed, though it sounded more… whimsical than sad, "six years ago today, my mother died."

He frowned, his brow creasing with sympathy as he looked at her. "I'm sorry to hear that."

She laughed. It sounded off, considering the subject matter. "You already knew that, Harry."

"Well, I- I didn't _forget_ , I just mean-"

"That you're sorry for my loss?" she filled in for him, eyes bright. "Thank you. I am too."

Despite Luna's general serenity, he couldn't help but feel like he was mucking up the conversation with his weird mood. "Sorry- I'm not usually this bad at talking," he mentioned, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand.

She laughed again. "What a silly thing to say. How can someone be bad at talking?"

Harry peered at her, shrugging. "I don't kn- _Ow!_ " One of Hedwig's talons pinched through his robes, the fabric not hardy enough to withstand it. Harry deposited her onto the windowsill, rubbing his arm as the owl sulked about.

He watched as Luna proffered her leg to the bird and Hedwig, pleased to be offered a perch, climbed on. "Hedwig is right," she told him, casual, before glancing to him again. "You're too hard on yourself."

The corner of his mouth twitched downward and his eyes fell to the floor. "Going to have to disagree with Hedwig, there."

She frowned at the owl, almost as if the two of them were conferring on a different wavelength. "That's very unfortunate," she murmured. "But I understand."

He'd expected her to argue, or at least refute his claim… Perhaps he had gotten used to a daily lecture from someone or other, Harry mused. After all the sneering comments from Snape, the crushing reprimands from Dumbledore, the zealous haranguing from Hermione, the insanely heavy expectations of the Wizarding World in general - Luna's gentle compassion felt… nice. Simple. _Light._

Reaching up to stroke Hedwig's head, Harry found himself asking, "Do you… have any good memories? Of your mum?"

"Very many," she informed him, head tilting. "What about you?"

"Me?" Harry shifted, his shoulders feeling stiff. "Um. Not really, I suppose."

She squinted at him. "Why not?"

"Well-" He frowned, not used to having to explain the particulars. "I mean, she died when I was a baby, so it's not like I remember anything…" _Aside from her dying screams,_ came his brain's unhelpful reminder. The moment he thought it, the memory blended with the carnage he'd seen in the woods; he'd never really given it much thought, but was that what his _parents_ had looked like after Voldemort was finished with them?

He must have looked quite ill, if Luna's frown was anything to go by, but her words indicated she wasn't following his line of thought. "You mean, no one's ever told you stories about her?"

Taken aback, he found himself saying, "Don't think there's many people to ask."

"They're still people _to_ ask, though," she pointed out.

"Most of my parents' friends are dead."

Seeming to take note of his cynicism, Luna directed her attention to Hedwig, thoughtful. "Every year, my father likes to send me letters of stories about my mother," she recounted. "Things she'd done, places she'd gone, things she liked. It keeps her alive, I think. I still have my memories intact, but sometimes it's nice to have people that can fill in the gaps. It's like I get to know her better, even though I'll never actually be able to."

He looked her in the eye, letting out a small sigh. "It's good that you have your dad to help you," Harry remarked, doing his best not to sound jealous. Because he _wasn't._ "What was your mother like?"

"Like a mother," she replied, as if this notion encapsulated the entire concept as a whole. "Warm and bright and serene and kind and loving and compassionate and-"

Her voice petered out suddenly, eyes catching on his face like she'd seen something. He waited for her to pick up again, but she didn't. "She sounds lovely," he volunteered.

Luna leaned forward, brushing past Hedwig as she reached into her boot and pulled something out - a bit of parchment, all folded up. She held it up to him. "This is this year's story," she told him.

"Yeah?" Harry wasn't sure if that was an invitation or not and, when he held out his hand, she only stared at it. In a moment, she pulled the folded page back against her chest; Harry used his abandoned hand to scratch at Hedwig's feathers momentarily, as if that had been the plan all along. To cover up the odd moment, he asked, "Hey, er, when's your mum's birthday?"

She blinked. "Why?"

He shrugged, the motion stiff. "I don't know. It was, um… It's gone just over a week since Sirius's birthday," Harry mentioned, his eyes wandering the room rather than looking at any one thing directly. "So. I just wondered."

"Happy Birthday Sirius," she said quietly, glancing toward the window. There was a tender grin stretching her lips.

A sheen of moisture blanketed his eyes, unbidden. He turned away, staring at the fluttering packs of owls and hoping it would go away on its own. "You, uh-" Harry cleared his throat. "You never met him, did you?"

"I didn't," she confirmed, sounding wistful. "You should tell me about him."

He'd expected to shy away from the topic; Harry hadn't spoken about Sirius to anyone in a long while. Every time he was even vaguely referred to, Harry felt chilled to the bone and on the verge of tears, the very thought of his godfather unbearably painful. It would have been easy to claim he didn't want to talk about it, but… what came out of his mouth was quite a different story. "He was… a lot of things. He always treated me- The first time we properly talked, he invited me to come live with him. Just like that, like he'd only been waiting for a good opportunity. Talking to him was so easy, and he cared about what I had to say, and he _believed_ in me when no other adult would. He wasn't actually… y'know. A murderer. Like everyone said in third year."

"Of course not," Luna uttered as if this were a foregone conclusion. It struck him that he hadn't really known her back then. Even so, considering the type of person she was, he could easily envision her sincerely believing in Sirius's innocence when no one else would.

"Sirius, he was- my godfather. My friend. He was funny and kind and _daring…_ I- I knew he would do anything for me. _Anything._ And… that's the worst bit, isn't it?" Harry commented, pained. "That he loved me right into his grave."

Harry swallowed, his gaze fixed to the floor as he admitted, "I miss him."

She nodded, though her attention was still directed out the window. "I think that made him happy," she observed. "Dying like that."

He frowned. "His life was just getting started again; he wasn't _happy_ to die, Luna."

"No, but," she paused, looking at him again, "we all die sooner or later, Harry. And we don't often get to choose how. I think he was happy to know that if he had to die, he did it protecting you. It's not a waste, because it means you're still here."

On the side of his face Luna couldn't see, a tear finally did escape his eyelashes. He let out a huff, pretending to scratch at his temple so he could wipe it away. "I wish we'd never gone, that day."

Considering her last few statements, he'd expected some form of disagreement. Instead, her smile turned somber as she reached over and grabbed his hand, giving his fingers a light squeeze. "You'll see him again someday, Harry."

He stared at the point of contact, unsure how to feel about it, but not breaking away. He really didn't think he'd ever see Sirius again, but to say as much would really only be hurtful to Luna, wouldn't it? She had people to mourn too.

So, instead of voicing his thoughts, he pointed out: "You never did tell me when your mum's birthday was."

"April first."

"April fool's, huh?" She nodded and Harry offered her a small smile. "You know, I really like birthdays," he admitted. "It's a day for… I don't know. Congratulating someone for being alive. So- I suppose I like that better… Y'know, celebrating the bits of people's lives that are worth remembering."

She tilted her head, inquiring, "Didn't you know already what birthdays were for?"

'Well- I…" He paused, fingers stopping on Hedwig's back. "Suppose I just never gave it that much thought."

His eyes met hers when she mused, "Thinking is my favorite thing to do. I make time for it whenever I can."

Harry expelled an amused breath, taking her words as a joke, but her unbroken composure clued him in to that she was serious. "Ehm, that's… good?" he commented, trying to make up for the gaffe.

He needn't have bothered; Luna appeared completely unperturbed. "You know, Harry," she addressed him, "I believe you have good thoughts."

The compliment was so honest and sudden that Harry felt at a complete loss how to respond. After a short delay he replied, quick and automatic, "You too."

"Oh, I don't know about that," she remarked, pensive. "I have a lot of brilliant thoughts, quite a few clever, some warm, nice, or interesting, and, of course, many that are silly. But you have _good_ thoughts, Harry. Those are a lot more rare."

While her meaning wasn't entirely clear to him, he could venture a guess. "My thoughts aren't anything special," he argued, finding it a touch odd that he had to say so. "Everyone has all sorts."

"I think you underestimate how difficult those good thoughts are to have when you're so sad."

Her words were sincere and simple, striking his heart, but they still required refutation. "I may _sound_ like I know what I'm talking about, but I don't," Harry insisted. "I haven't exactly been doing a great job remembering Sirius in the way he'd want me to."

"The best thing about the present is that at any time we can start doing the things we regret we haven't started yet," she told him. "That's what my father likes to say, anyway."

"Smart bloke, your dad," Harry observed with a sigh. "I'll… think about it."

"You've done enough of that, I believe," she remarked, before her shoulders lifted into a shrug. "But thank you."

His answering smile was rueful. "Yeah. Um, thank you, too."

He didn't realize that she'd been holding his hand the entire time until she let it go. Harry sighed. "Well, s'pose I should be doing something, even if its not class. Maybe I'll do a lap around the pitch."

"Maybe it should be class," she suggested. "You look a little tired from running."

"Running?" Harry blinked, looking down at himself. "I haven't been running."

"Away," she said as she rose from her stoop, plopping down beside him. Before he could say anything else, she took his hands again, though this time her touch was much more exploratory. Her eyes screwed up and her nose scrunched before she dropped them, leaving him with one more piece of advice before she picked up her things and walked away. "You should wash those."

Bemused, Harry hastily glanced at both sides of his hands, finding nothing amiss. But, by the time he glanced up again to ask what she meant by it, Luna was already gone.

••••••••••

For the rest of the period, Harry spent a while wandering circles around the courtyard, worrying at the petals of Luna's flower crown in his hands, while Hedwig swooped about the garden trying to catch mice. Breathing in the fresh air felt rejuvenating, but his eyes kept catching on the distant treeline of the forest, the sight of it accompanied by unpleasant thoughts.

He felt a little better than he had before, Harry supposed. Bit less like his head had gone through a cheese grater, at least. But that didn't change his distinct aversion to being in the Potions classroom, chained to a cauldron for two hours while Snape shot generic insults at him from point-blank range. Harry could barely eat, barely sleep… He knew he was functioning even less than usual, to the point where he was concerning his friends, but Snape? He was no more or less grumpy than usual, and performed all his typical duties with thoroughly unremarkable aplomb. As if his weekend had been just as uneventful as all the ones before, as if he hadn't witnessed the scene of a brutal murder or answered the call of a genocidal maniac.

How could he _possibly_ act as if nothing had happened?

A twinge of pain in the center of his forehead threatened to bring his headache roaring back, and Harry was quick to put those thoughts away. Depositing Hedwig back in the Owlery, he determined that he'd probably do better by preparing himself for Charms instead of shuffling about the grounds for ages hoping nobody spotted him.

Besides, the quiet was starting to get to him.

Crossing the courtyard for the final time, he sighed, entering the castle once more. It was nearly the end of the break between classes, and that meant very few people were roaming the corridors. _Good._ Just as he'd begun wondering where on the first floor he should set himself up, a voice carried across the Entrance Hall. A _familiar_ voice.

"You finished?" Hermione was saying, her voice loud and strained. "Get out of our way. I'm not telling you again."

Harry was torn between staying hidden and seeing what was going on; it was stupid, but he really didn't want to fight with Hermione again, and he knew if she saw him she'd try to drag him off to Potions. On the other hand, if someone was giving her trouble…

He peeked around the corner to have a look at the door to the Hall. At the same instant, he heard a reply which identified the speaker immediately.

"How _very_ uncouth, Miss Granger. I don't think I'm inclined to acquiesce when you are so lacking in _manners._ "

Harry could see the back of Malfoy's head, partially obscured by a stone pillar and clearly blocking the doorway. Inching forward, Harry watched and listened.

Another voice entered the fray, just as familiar. Croft's laugh was sardonic. "Are we five, Malfoy?" With her hand at Hermione's elbow, the two girls stepped up directly in front of Malfoy, but he moved to block their progress, his perch at the top of the steps steadfast.

"I wasn't finished having a little chat with Granger."

"She doesn't want to talk to you."

"Oh, are you chummy now?" Malfoy's attention hoisted itself on Hermione. "On good terms with the drop out? Let her speak for you?"

"Don't talk to her like that!" Hermione demanded. "You've _no_ right!"

"I'm aware that with your upbringing this may be difficult for you to grasp," he practically purred, every word dripping with condescension. "But to the well bred, it is understood that when speaking to your _betters,_ you do so with respect."

Harry's fists clenched, unable to endure Malfoy's pompous cruelty any longer, and he was halfway across the space before he even realized he was moving. With an almighty lurch, he approached the boy before he could react, shoving him sideways into the entryway door, hard.

"Out of the way, Malfoy," he sneered, casting the boy the most withering glare he had.

The Slytherin, to his surprise, didn't seem all that scandalized by the assault. Once he recovered, he stood tall and amused, his laugh seeping out of him in a way that made Harry's skin crawl. "Well _there_ he is," he drawled. "Your knight in shining armor, Granger. How fortuitous for you."

" _Harry-!_ " Hermione spoke his name like an epithet, her arms held taut at her sides. "What are you doing?!"

His gaze didn't leave Malfoy's face. "Just tidying the hallway."

"I thought you were-" She stopped herself, making a slashing gesture of frustration. "You shouldn't be here!"

That time, Harry did glance at her. "I'm trying to help-"

"We don't need _help,_ " she shot back, irritated. "We can handle this ourselves!"

Malfoy's eyes caught on Hermione in a way Harry didn't like. "Trouble on the homefront, Potter?"

His glare returned to the boy. "Shove off, Malfoy."

"Don't think I will," Malfoy returned, breezy.

"What's your angle, anyway?" Harry questioned. "Lost your bodyguards, so… what? You've stooped to targeting girls?"

"Targeting," the boy balked, the sound of his chuckle grating. "How utterly _conceited._ As if I'd bother myself-"

Croft was moving again, ushering Hermione further up the stairs by the arm. In a second, Malfoy was stepped up in front of her, his height on the steps lending him more room to look down at the girls, despite he and Croft being near equal in stature.

Croft's mouth went taut. "We don't have a lot of time before we're late for Potions," she brought up. "And considering your last run in with Snape-"

"Oh, you'd know about _that,_ wouldn't you?" Draco seethed, his lip curling upward in disgust. "You and Snape, thick as thieves. You should be careful. One might begin to _think-_ "

"Think what?" Hermione retorted with a grimace. "That she's better than you? Anyone can see _that_ plain as day."

Malfoy's expression suddenly contorted with rage. "You impetuous little _Mudblood-!_ "

Harry's wand was in his hand in an instant, inserting himself between them. "Say that again, and you'll regret it."

Malfoy didn't appear one bit intimidated. His wand was out and drawn at him in a second, lips curled in an unsettling grin. "Don't start something you can't finish, Potter."

" _Stop!_ " Hermione shouted directly by his ear. "What is wrong with you?!"

"What, you _want_ him to call you that?" Harry rounded on her.

"What I want is for you to _drop it._ "

"Hermione-!"

"I can handle this," she insisted, expression stern. "I'm not twelve, Harry."

He _knew_ that, but that wasn't really the point, was it? He couldn't just stand aside while Malfoy harassed people! _Especially_ not his friends! The very thought of backing down set his blood boiling.

Still, as he stared at the wand in his hand, it reminded him that he still had the borrowed one from Snape stowed away in his trunk. The memory of those cruel slashes on the bellhound… He never wanted to do that to anyone. Even someone as hateful and infuriating as Malfoy.

Perhaps it _would_ be better to let Hermione deal with it. Harry wasn't exactly in a fit state to duel anyway; he was caught between anger and nausea, his headache returned with a vengeance.

He lowered his wand with a hateful glower at Malfoy. "You're not worth the time," Harry murmured, casting his gaze at the wall. Hermione visibly unwound her shoulders in response.

"No, I wouldn't be, would I?" Malfoy drawled, his free arm maneuvering toward his trousers to produce a length of silver chain from his pocket. He palmed the pocket watch that was attached to the end, eyes dropping downward in a casual flick as he opened the face. "Have to ration out what little you have left, eh, _Potter?_ "

Hermione reared back. "That's _sick,_ Malfoy-"

A blind, searing rage propelled Harry forward, pushing past her before she could finish her sentence. He didn't see it, but the sound of a body colliding against the stone steps clanged in his ears, a sound that normally would have stilled him. Instead, his arm shot out, his spell bellowing out of him so harshly it resonated out into the grounds: " _Bombarda!_ "

A sickening _thwump_ ing noise boomed as Malfoy's body flew and twisted in the air, landing on the bottom steps.

Seeing him crumpled down there caused an odd feeling to sing through his muscles… It just wasn't _enough,_ was it? The lesson really needed to sink in. And that feeling guided him down closer, wand pointed. When he noticed Malfoy shakily lifting himself up, his voice lashed out like a whip: " _Confringo!_ "

Malfoy, blasted sideways, skirted across the dirt, a loud grunt seeping out of him.

The girls were hovering above him, screaming. Hermione's pitched above the other. "Harry, _stop!_ He's had enough-!"

But his own voice drowned out hers as he continued to shout the same spell over and over. _Confringo, Confringo, Confringo,_ Malfoy's body convulsing and writhing as every invisible blow struck him. Still not fighting back, the _coward-_

And when the first sign of blood trickled from the boy's arm upon the _Diffindo_ Harry hadn't realized he cast, he felt… satisfied. _Frenzied._ He wanted to see more. His wand sliced through the air, patches of blood seeping into the boy's white blouse with every swipe-

He felt a pair of arms wrapping about his shoulders, pulling his arms back, disrupting the flow of his casting. His back was taut against his jailor's chest, the voice at his ear, infuriatingly calm, belonging to Croft. "Harry, it's done. You got him. Stop."

The satisfaction he'd felt a moment prior turned abruptly in the opposite direction, morphing into a rabid fury.

What did _she_ know? She hadn't seen what he had. The malice. The degradation. The absolute _carnage_ wrought by someone Malfoy called "Master". If she only knew what that little worm was capable of - she wouldn't _dare_ to stop him. She would understand how long overdue this punishment was. This was justice; this was _mercy._ If anything, Malfoy deserved so much worse-

And he told her that.

Or, he thought he had. He could imagine himself saying it, could _feel_ the impulse writhing in him. But the hollow heaviness of his screams were lodged in the pit of his throat - body responding before his mind could catch up. Suddenly, he was on the ground, punching, scratching, pinching.

This wasn't right. He'd only wanted to make her see.

She was disturbingly limp under his body, his knees digging so hard into her sides that they threatened to crush her. His hands were on fire. They were wet. Smelled like copper. _Disgusting._

But he couldn't make himself _stop-_

Until a scream blared from his left and he felt the sharp sting of a spell taking hold of him, striking like a bolt of electricity, deadening his nerves - and _forced_ him to.

••••••••••

"Do you understand why you are here, Harry?"

He stared into space, eyes unfocused. Every breath felt painful. His arms were in agony, as if his own muscles were rebelling against him. The Headmaster's office was oppressively warm, but the atmosphere was far less so. He couldn't decide which pain was worse- that of his body or his mind.

His knuckles were raw. Though the caked blood had been cleaned off hours before, they still felt dirty. Not to mention painful. His fingers were bruised and battered, a horrible purplish shade; Madam Pomfrey had refused to heal them.

"I suppose," Harry replied at length, holding himself stiffly amid the pain which seemed to be circulating around him.

Dumbledore peered at him from across his desk, his hands threaded together atop his desk. "You suppose?" This was spoken very quietly, the undercurrent of disappointment in his voice like a dagger to Harry's heart.

"I… I hardly know what happened," he admitted, frowning.

"Well, allow me to enlighten you."

Harry watched as Dumbledore laid four parchments on the desktop, lined in a row at the edge.

"These are the accounts of Misses Granger and Croft, Madam Pomfrey, and Mr. Malfoy. You will note the last is left entirely blank, so as to not interrupt his recovery."

His gaze fixed itself to the empty page. He said nothing.

"According to those who witnessed the event, you entered into a confrontation between Mr. Malfoy and the young ladies aforementioned which culminated in his sustaining multiple injuries, including but not limited to: Multiple fractures to his ribcage, shoulders, and left hip; multiple contusions to the chest, neck, back and stomach; multiple lacerations across the chest and stomach, some dangerously close to the throat; and internal hemorrhaging."

Dumbledore's stare was solemn and pointed. "Those injuries were all inflicted by you."

Harry cringed. There was no way he'd done that…! He could not _possibly_ be expected to believe that it was him who had caused that kind of destruction to another person. Even the thought of it made him feel queasy!

But the Headmaster wasn't done. "When Miss Croft attempted to intercede during the attack, she also sustained injury from you: Fractures in her jaw, skull, and nose, alongside multiple contusions across the face, chest and shoulders."

What? _What?_ He would never, _ever_ do something like that! This was all wrong. _Everything_ was wrong! Dumbledore's insistence was as absurd as it was disturbing; Harry wasn't… he _couldn't…_

"Miss Granger stated that you were unresponsive to her pleas, and thus performed a Stunning hex to stop you."

He stared at the back of his hands, horrified. What… _what_ had happened? How could things have turned out like this? Harry couldn't understand it at all. Couldn't connect the pieces together. It was all a jumble in his mind.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" Dumbledore prompted, as stern as Harry had ever heard him.

"I… I don't know how…" Harry murmured, shaking his head.

"Anger is a powerful emotion, Harry," the man said. "If I had known how ill equipped you were to handle it-"

"That wasn't me!" Harry said at once, sick to his stomach. " _None_ of that had anything to do with me!"

Dumbledore's expression was deadly serious. "A lie will get you nowhere, Harry."

"I'm _not_ a liar!"

"You lied to Miss Granger, did you not?"

"That-!" Harry huffed. "I just wanted her to stop pestering me about class-"

"I think you know that is not what I am referring to."

"What? Then what are you-?"

"If you can lie to your friends, you can lie to anyone, Harry." His mien was weary as he gathered up the papers before him again.

"It wasn't a lie!" he insisted, sliding to the edge of his seat. "I really wasn't feeling well- I just didn't want to go to the Hospital Wing-"

"Harry." The way that single word was said caused him to fall silent immediately. "It occurs to me that I have made a grave error in judgment in regards to you."

Harry's throat closed up, his whole body poised to curl inward and _shrivel_ in the face of this impending rejection. His bruised fingers twinged horribly as he clenched them tightly together. "Am… am I being expelled?" he croaked, his eyes trained at the floor.

When Dumbledore did not reply right away, Harry took that for a confirmation. His limbs felt like lead. He knew he couldn't be totally abandoned - he was the _Boy Who Lived_ , after all - but he'd have to go back to the Dursleys', wouldn't he? Go back to months and months of no news, no friends, no _life._ There would be no summer homework to keep him sane, nothing to look forward to. If he got expelled, would they even let him keep his wand? He may as well not be a wizard at all, then.

 _God,_ he wanted to cry so badly, but he was so beyond spent already that he just felt… paralyzed. Trapped by his dismal thoughts.

When a hand landed softly on his shoulder, he actually jumped. Dumbledore was standing right next to him, close enough for Harry to see the worry lines on his face in detail. "My boy, please calm yourself."

Only then did he realize how heavy his breathing was. He took a gulp of air, holding it. Whatever was going to happen, he couldn't just freak out in front of Dumbledore. No need to make himself look even _more_ mental.

"Harry, did you hear me? No one is being expelled, least of all you. Do you understand?"

He couldn't really get his mouth to function, so he just gave the man a feeble nod. Even so, he was having a hard time calming down. His heart was still furiously beating.

"When you are ready." Dumbledore held out a glass of water. Harry took hold of it with shaky fingers.

A few sips in, he felt more normal, though still incredibly disoriented. The Headmaster settled in the armchair adjacent, grunting as he lowered himself down and then gazing at Harry once more.

"Better?"

He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Yeah."

"Harry," the Headmaster addressed him after a small pause, "I owe you an apology."

That wasn't at all what he'd expected to hear. "Why?"

"I prioritized your learning and progress over your well-being, and for that I am deeply sorry."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

Dumbledore regarded him with sympathy. "These last few months cannot have been easy for you. I had thought that allowing you some occupation with the Order would prove to ease your mind a little, but in the process it seems to have taken a further toll."

He was halfway through a sip of water, but that had him rushing to say, "It has been helping! I don't… I mean, I've learned something new every time-"

"And that is the issue, is it not?" the man replied. "Real world experience is, of course, invaluable, but Harry - a sound mind is even more so."

"There's nothing wrong with my mind," he murmured, clutching the glass in his hands.

"Indeed not," Dumbledore admitted, patting Harry's shoulder. "But I knew from the start that you struggled with an instability of emotion."

"I was fine," he lied. "I _am_ fine."

"No, in fact, I do not think you are," the Headmaster called his bluff. "The terrible scene you witnessed Friday night- anyone would be affected, Harry. But you, who has been through so much already? I fear it may have pushed you a step too far."

"It's not the first time I've seen a dead body, Professor. I'm _dealing_ with it-"

"If your method of 'dealing with it' is violence, then I'm afraid I cannot allow you to continue."

"It's not!" Harry grimaced. "Look, what happened this morning, it wasn't me. I don't know how, but it was like I was _possessed-_ "

"When we let ourselves be led by our anger, it can indeed feel that way."

" _No,_ that's not what I-" Harry mediated his tone. "Professor, you have to believe me. There's something strange going on. Some dark magic or, or… I don't know. But Malfoy- he must have done something to me."

"Harry, I can understand why you would rather suspect foul play than admit wrongdoing, but it is imperative that you own your actions," the Headmaster admonished him, expression grim. "I have, perhaps, enabled you by rewarding your rule-breaking endeavors in the past, but this is a far more serious matter. You have harmed two students, and that is unacceptable."

"I _know_ that, but-"

"No, Harry. There is no getting out of this. Considering who you have attacked, this may well get out to the Daily Prophet. If you are not prepared to take responsibility, this event could discredit you among your supporters."

He stared at the older man. "You're not listening," he accused, his voice quiet.

Dumbledore surveyed him a moment. "Magic leaves traces; dark magic even more so. But in the Entrance Hall, the only traces that exist belong to you." He adjusted his spectacles on his nose before saying, "I _am_ listening, Harry. But there was no magic propelling you to act as you did- only your own volatility, and my thoughtless allowances."

"I'm not…" Harry stopped, his words turning to ash in his throat. There was no point arguing, was there? The Headmaster had already made up his mind.

"Until further notice, I cannot in good conscience allow you to undertake further missions with Professor Snape."

He felt so exhausted that he couldn't even muster up an objection to that. His mind felt completely empty. Was this what Snape had been trying to tell him in his Occlumency lessons last year? To become so void of feeling that he hardly felt like a person at all? After all, how could someone take advantage of his thoughts and emotions if he didn't have any?

In that case, ironically, it seemed that Dumbledore would have made a better teacher.

"I hope you understand this is not a punishment," Dumbledore intoned, his words both careful and sad. "I so often forget how young you are - how striking the realities of war appear to the uninitiated. In truth, Harry, I should never have subjected you to such things so early. It is an error which I shall work toward rectifying."

Harry's eyebrows drew minutely downward. "Fine."

"I trust you to do the same with your own mistakes, hm?"

His only response was a noncommittal hum. Dumbledore seemed to sense that he was unlikely to make any definitive statements in that regard, since the man did not press Harry further.

"I'm afraid that's not all," Dumbledore mentioned, retracting his hand back into his lap as his expression became grave. "Although barring you from Order excursions is, in earnest, not done out of spite - that does not mean your actions can pass without consequence."

The man rose from the seat beside him to return to the one behind his desk, folding his hands in front of him. "For the duration of November, December and January, you will be attending daily detention, weekday evenings and weekends. As such, your visits to Hogsmeade will be temporarily disallowed. This schedule will, of course, necessitate your removal from the Quidditch team for the remainder of this year."

Just when he thought he couldn't sink any lower, Harry felt the cold sting of every good thing in his life being snuffed out one by one.

"As for the matter of points, one hundred have been deducted from Gryffindor's total."

Maybe everyone would hate him again, just like fourth year; it was hard to muster the energy to care.

"As well, I will be requiring you to deliver personal apologies to Miss Croft _and_ Mr. Malfoy."

Pointless. All of it.

"You will report to Mr. Filch tomorrow night for your first detention, but, for now- go. Get some rest. Your initial act of making amends will be to take care of yourself. Can you do that for me?"

Harry had the urge to shrug, but he feared that might prolong the lecture; so, he forced out a muttered, "Sure."

As he rose to leave, Dumbledore's parting statement lodged itself uncomfortably between his shoulder blades: "Harry, I expect this to be your last altercation with Mr. Malfoy. You will leave him to the adults."

His hand paused on the door handle, and he stared back at the older man, hunched over in his desk chair.

"Do you understand?" came his insistent prompt. Dumbledore's grey eyes were trained on Harry, unwavering.

He met the Headmaster's stare for the briefest moment before he walked out the door without saying a word.


	12. Derailed

Wow... This one took a while. As we mentioned in our Tumblr updates, we ran into some real-life snags as we tried to plod through this one. Thankfully, we were able to finish it! Hopefully future chapters are easier and we don't force you to wait two months! In happier news, this fic has reached its first anniversary. We can't believe we've been writing this for a year. It seems like only yesterday that we'd just started... We thank you all for joining us on this journey, and we hope you continue to enjoy reading this as much as we enjoy working on it together.

For chapter images and faster updates, check us out on AO3!

Coming Soon - Chapter 13: Awry

••••••••••

She ought to have arrived with an apology in tow but, instead, she came with a notice.

Upon opening the Divination trapdoor, she narrowly ducked an object that came flying directly at her head. The thing splattered against the wood behind her, a chunk of it sluicing downward and bouncing off her shoulder before landing on the floor below.

She brushed crumbs from her robe.

 _The hell?_

"Whoops! Sorry, Cleo!"

She peeked her head back up. Ren was standing there, appearing apologetic but also on the verge of laughter.

"I, uh… thought you were Peeves."

She squinted. "Yes, I get that often."

When she fully emerged into the room, she was surprised to find it absolutely _covered_ in baked goods. Every available surface held the debris; an alarming amount of powdered sugar dusted the silk overhangings, an assortment of cupcakes were icing-down on the floor as if they'd been launched from across the room, and the crumbled remains of cookies were scattered on cushions and tables.

Ren grinned at her unabashedly. "Thought I'd be able to land my coup de grace before Sybill's next round of students came in, but I suppose it wasn't meant to be."

After Cleo took in the oversized jumper and blue jeans dotted with bits of frosting, Ren's stranger features began to reveal themselves. The first thing she noticed was the tail: Lizard-like and long, it trailed heavily behind them on the floor. Next, the eyelashes: They were bright orange and membraned, like fins, sticking together briefly with every blink. And last, their bird-like feet, lacking shoes and attached to spindly flamingo legs, extended past the length of their jeans. The ensemble was as bizarre a mixture as it always was.

Ren jutted a thumb over their shoulder. "She's in the office with Bridge, if you were wondering."

Somehow, _that_ revelation was still one of thousands, and equally impossible to appreciate at the current moment. "Does, uh. Professor Trelawney know about-" She gestured to the chaos.

"Hm?" Their eyes followed her motion. "Oh, this? Yeah, she knows." A bright, mischievous smile alighted their face. "There's a _reason_ she's fled to the next room, but I just can't figure it out."

"Uh." She swallowed hard, peering into Ren's unflinching and unblinking expression. "Why?"

"Well, if I had to put my finger on-"

"No," she cut in, sharp. "Why?" She made a grand sweeping indication to the room. " _Why?_ "

Their eyebrows raised, the mirth still crinkled in the corners of their eyes. "If you've never engaged in merry war with ol' Madcap Peeves, then you have missed out on one of life's purest joys."

"Right." She made the executive decision that she was better off not knowing more details. With a side step away from the trap door, she dismissed herself with, "Office? Office. Okay. Morning," before hurriedly making her way across the room. Not wanting her entrance to be too bombast, she forced herself into a casual stroll for the last couple of steps and opened the door with a short series of knuckle knocks against the threshold.

She ushered her way in before the professor had a chance to give the full go ahead, the beaded curtain over the door heralding her arrival, and Trelawney turned her way with all the energy of a startled rabbit, her hands already reaching up to shield her face.

"I _told_ you to stay out, out, _out!_ "

Cleo was quick to close the door behind her.

"Have you no common _decency-?!_ "

"Sybill," a voice cut in smoothly. "It's a student."

The woman heaved in another quaky breath, likely to continue her barrage, but those words came clear to her a moment later. Her arms sank halfway downward, and she peered over top of them to meet Cleo's eyes. "Ah. So it is."

Her arms wilted the rest of the way into her lap and she looked about Cleo's frame as if to divine something from her appearance. The woman looked very small where she was seated on the floor beside Professor Tenenbaum. Curious, but clearly still out of sorts, Trelawney opened with, "Cleo? Are you-?" before she performed an awkward little hum in the middle of her sentence, starting on a different track. "What- what is it? Why have you come?"

"I, uhm-" The absurdity of the scene was settling on her in the delay: Professor Trelawney, disheveled and haggard, balancing on two mis-matched throw pillows while the rest of her limbs were splayed awkwardly on shag carpet. Professor Tenenbaum, regal and beguiling, lounging on a lion's share of the cushions, her legs carefully propped on a stack of pillows that kept them elevated to head-level, the lavender monstrosity of her wheelchair exiled in a corner.

It wasn't nearly as difficult to understand as the baked-goods mishap a room over, but strange all the same. She forced herself to blink. To swallow. To breathe.

To speak. "I needed to give you my official notice for temporary absence." Her eyes drifted, momentarily, to Professor Tenenbaum. "To you as well, I guess, since you're already here."

"Temporary?" Trelawney's voice wobbled. "But… I thought you had given up on the divining arts…?"

Cleo grimaced.

Yeah.

Okay.

This wasn't _unexpected._ She'd hoped- well, she didn't know what she'd hoped, but-

"I- No," she stammered, uncertain of where to position herself in the room. "I _know_ I haven't been coming to class, but-"

"Oh, there's a _but_ to that statement," Tenenbaum cut in, blithe, as she stretched her arms over her head.

Suddenly, she rather wished Ren was in the room with them. At least their _bon vivant_ attitude could temper the frigid atmosphere. Or maybe Cleo would have felt less judged.

Not that she was _undeserving_ of being judged-

"No 'but'," Cleo was quick to correct herself. "I haven't been coming to class. I'm sorry."

Trelawney blinked several times very quickly, the motion made further dramatic by the magnification of her glasses. "My dear, you… you aren't angry with me?"

"Sybill, _honestly,_ " Tenenbaum interjected, sitting up. In a second, the intensity of her attention was foisted in Cleo's direction, the switch so jilting she felt the urge to stumble.

That look in her eye... Cleo could feel something _terrible_ coming if she didn't-

"No," she amended immediately, taking a step forward. "Of course not, Professor. I was in the wrong."

Trelawney fiddled with a shawl draped over her shoulder. "You gave me such a _fright,_ leaving like you did," she murmured, frowning. "Your aura was _quite_ disturbed."

Tenenbaum's eyebrow raised at her. Cleo felt a shiver run down her spine. "I know. I'm really sorry."

"And such _fiery_ words you had! I was so very _singed_ that I was forced to cancel classes for the rest of the day!"

"I'm so sorry, Professor."

"The students were so unsettled that none experienced _any_ visions of the Beyond!"

"I can't imagine. I apologize."

With a blink and a short sigh, she continued still further, "To think you would resort to _falsehoods_ in order to impress me! The whole business was _so very_ unfortunate-"

"She got it, Sybill," Tenenbaum interrupted, boredly scratching the calloused leg stump she'd plopped over her left knee.

"Well," Trelawney huffed. "These two weeks I have performed daily readings and even monitored her horoscope to be certain nothing _horrible_ had happened to her- and now, after being _missing,_ to announce _another_ leave of absence! It does not bode well!"

"It's a family matter," Cleo explained, gaze flitting between the two faces. "That's all."

The woman drew a worried hand to her chest, jostling her many beaded necklaces. "Has some terrible misfortune befallen your mother?!"

"No," Cleo deadpanned.

Tenebaum forced her way into the fray before Trelawney had much of a chance to continue. "How long will you be gone for?"

"The Headmaster granted me a week," she answered.

"A _week?!_ " Trelawney squawked. "But my dear, you are already so behind!"

"I know, but-"

"I imagine," Tenenbaum practically _purred,_ "that Miss Croft is fully willing to make up what she misses to the very _best_ extent of her ability. Like a grown up. Is that right?"

Cleo forced a smile down the barrel of that threat. "Yes, of course."

"Well then," with a slight cant of her head, the diminutive woman flashed a bright grin in Trelawney's direction. "All settled."

The professor looked poised to fret some more, but she was distracted by the auspicious arrival of Ren. They popped through the beaded entryway with all the energy of a gale force wind, startling Trelawney so badly that she upset the tea tray sitting between her and Tenenbaum.

"Hey, what a surprise! It's my favorite people!" they announced, clapping their hands together.

Trelawney was incensed. "You are _disrupting_ the energy of my office!" she shrieked, her hands waving to shoo Ren away.

"I see you realized Peeves isn't in this part of the castle," Tenenbaum commented, breezy, as she lifted her other leg with her hands.

"That slippery codger retreated again," Ren sighed, wandering further into the room. "Is it a sign of old age that I can't be bothered to chase him down?"

"Yes," Tenenbaum dismissed before she waved them over. "Make yourself useful for once, please. My leg is starting to feel stiff."

"For once?!" was their affronted reply. Despite their exaggerated offense, Cleo noticed that Ren immediately went to her side. "I'll have you know I am a highly useful person! _The usefullest!_ "

"Oh, is _that_ why you've spent the past hour making a horror of Sybill's classroom?"

"A horror? I'd say I positively livened up the space!" Ren informed them all, head held high. Not a touch of shame. "Say what you will about my methods, but you must admit the decor is a _touch_ old hat."

" _Excuse_ me?!" Trelawney objected, looking fit to burst. "My rooms were perfectly harmonized until you- _you_ unbalanced them!"

She wasn't going to get a cue much more solid than that. Taking a step back, Cleo excused herself with a soft, "Well, thank you for speaking with me. I hope you have a good day."

"Oh, hey, Cleo!" Ren addressed her, one of their membraned eyelashes sticking as they blinked. "Been meaning to ask you something."

Cleo started. "Uhm, okay?"

"You're friends with Thea Waters, yeah?"

"I-" she paused. "I know her, yeah. Why?"

Ren's eyebrows drew upwards in earnest concern before they asked, "Is she doing alright?"

 _That_ particular question settled uneasily. "I haven't talked to her for a while," she explained, before taking a step back into the room. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"Well…" They sat back on their heels, adjusting their tail by hand so it curled beside them. "I'm not really supposed to tell you this, but since I'm not a real teacher, I don't strictly care about the rules-"

"What a marvel idea," Tenenbaum remarked, scowling at them. "Perhaps you should stay out of it, then?"

Ren's smile shined toward her, bright and unwavering. "Darling, _never,_ " they sing-songed before turning back Cleo's way.

The next few moments were a chaotic flurry of motions as the - married? - couple attempted to speak over one another.

"So, here's the thing-"

Tenenbaum sat up.

"Ren."

"-I've noticed her in class-"

Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward.

" _Ren._ "

"-she's _very_ smart and enthusiastic usually-"

Her arm launched forward, barely brushing past Ren's face as they sat back further in a masterful, practiced dodge.

"-but _lately_ \- "

The rest of their sentence was muffled as Tenenbaum's palm finally hit its mark. She held fast to their mouth as they stared back at her, both eyebrows raising far up their forehead in a way that appeared almost like they were _impressed_.

" _Enough_ ," was her stern, yet soft, command.

Ren was hardly moved.

The two of them stared at one another for a while until Tenenbaum's expression rapidly deteriorated, her gaze drifting to her hand. Although Cleo couldn't tell what was happening _exactly_ , Tenenbaum's next words helped paint a picture.

" _Really?_ Ren, I'm not a _child_ , that's not as gross as you think-"

Ren wrenched the woman's wrist away from their lips, her palm glistening with spit.

Their voice came out in a gasp. "Sorry, Cleo. Anyway, as I was saying, she's _very_ attentive but-"

Tenenbaum's torso twisted as she attempted to pull out of Ren's vice grip, but was barely able to budge. "Ren, I _swear_ \- "

Ren's other hand came down on her shoulder, pinning her down against the throw pillows. "-but her heart just doesn't seem _in it,_ you know?-"

Tenenbaum let out a mighty cry as she attempted to push up against their pin. " _Ren!_ "

She twisted hard and, to her credit, was able to lift Ren up with her as she rose a few inches off the ground. However, with their weight bearing down on her, she immediately plummeted, upsetting some of the pillows in her circle as they scattered across the floor.

Ren beamed. "That's good, honey. _Really_ good upper body workout-"

"- I'll show _you_ an upper body workout-!"

She grunted loudly again. Ren looked Cleo's way.

"It's just that Thea seems distracted-"

"-Merlin's _balls_ , Ren-!"

"-and I'm just, you know-"

"-Fine! _Fine!_ Just get _off-!_ "

With an exaggerated lurch backwards, Ren let the woman loose, exhaling the last word of their sentence in victory. "Worried."

Cleo blinked, her eyes flitting between the two hyperventilating bodies before she plunged her hands into her robe pockets. "I don't know, like-" she took in a sharp breath and frowned. "She _was_ incredibly upset by what happened in Divination a couple weeks ago, but I thought I'd handled that-"

Ren tipped their head minutely. "What happened in Divination?"

"Cleo was acting _quite_ out of sorts," Trelawney supplied, taking a prim sip of her tea.

Cleo couldn't help the scowl. "That wasn't-" She stopped herself with a breath, her frustration tensing into the pucker of her lips before she turned to face the woman. "You told her she was going to die."

"I only say what I _see_ , child," the professor informed her, not a single twitch in her expression. "If what you say is true, then I was merely a messenger for the Fates."

She couldn't disguise her disgust as she stared at the woman, incredulous. "How is that even remotely appropriate?"

Trelawney seemed to realize the animosity in the room, and she stuttered, defensive, "I- I have no _control_ over the visions I see with my Inner Eye! You- you _know_ that… don't you?"

"That doesn't-" Cleo grit her teeth, hard, as she closed her eyes. She tried taking a breath. It wasn't making her any less irritated. "You told her she was going to die horribly in a fire. She's _eleven_."

"I said nothing of the sort-!"

"So, what? She lied?" Cleo balked. "Were Harry Potter and Ron Weasley in on it? Because they heard it too."

Her voice was very small. "I don't…"

"We're veering a bit from the point," Ren cut in with a sigh. "I just wondered if you knew anything about where she might go outside the common room."

"Why?" she asked suddenly. "You just said she looked dispirited in class. What does that have to do with where she hangs out?"

" _Well,_ " they began, shifting a look toward Tennenbaum, who had haphazardly tossed her leg at them. Without missing a beat, they caught it, taking the atrophied-looking limb and stretching it out before pushing it back in, repeating the exercise a few more times before addressing Cleo again. "At the last staff meeting, Snape mentioned he's assigned her three separate detentions for skiving off, but she didn't bother showing up to any of them."

Cleo's head tilted. "She's been skipping Potions?"

"Seems so," Ren replied, flippant.

"Do you know how long?"

They shrugged. "S'pose you'll have to ask Snape yourself."

" _No_ , you won't," Tenenbaum interjected, a soft grunt escaping her as Ren pushed her leg up against her chest in a stretch.

Cleo grimaced. "Why not?"

"Because it's none of your business."

"If she's not going to a class, wouldn't she end up-"

"Whatever it is, yes, she most likely will," Tenenbaum uttered, a bit callous, glancing her way as Ren leaned back to stretch out her leg again. "And that still doesn't make it any more your business."

Ren looked between them both as they remarked, "Friends take care of friends, don't they?"

"Friends don't _parent_ friends," Tenenbaum objected, scowling at them. "Don't encourage her."

"Wouldn't dream of it, dear," they replied, serene and smiling.

"Then couldn't one of you?" Cleo asked, spotting an opportunity. "Considering you _are_ her teachers and responsible for her education-"

"Very cute, Miss Croft," Tenenbaum commented without missing a beat. "But you'll have to try harder than that."

Cleo frowned. "I'm just _saying_ \- "

"I know what you're saying." Another sharp shiver cascaded down the length of her spine as the woman's eyes looked her over, picking her apart. "But unfortunately for you, I am a huge proponent of learning through experience."

Her rigorous practicals could attest to that. The girl's frown deepened.

Tenenbaum's attention directed itself to the other woman in the room once more for a spectacular, albeit subtle, shut down. "Sybill, don't you have a class soon?"

The professor sprang up from her seat so quickly that she spilled her tea all over the cushions. "Oh, no- The classroom!" The horror in her voice was overpowered by Ren, who outright laughed, lifting themselves into a standing position as well.

"I'm not normally one to clean up my own messes," they admitted, stretching out their arms as if preparing for a workout. "But for _you_ \- "

"If you finish that sentence I'll _divorce_ you," Tenenbaum uttered, the severity of her words belied by the bored way she scratched her leg stump.

Ren's response was sly. "Oh? Have we tied the knot, then?"

Tenenbaum met them with a raised eyebrow. "I'll drag you to the Ministry, marry you, _then_ divorce you."

"Don't think you're in a state to do much _dragging_ , dear-"

The professor let out a growl that somehow managed to sound both irate and _amused_ as she lurched over her stack of pillows to grab one soaked through with tea.

But by the time she'd turned to hurl the thing, Ren had slipped back through the veil of beads, their almighty cackle resonating loud and heavy in the enclosed space.

••••••••••

Cleo spotted Harry at his House table at lunch, seated beside Ron and a few other Gryffindors she recognized from classes. As she made her way over, they all turned to stare, including the redhead, who glared suspiciously the moment his eyes caught her.

Well. She supposed it was too optimistic to think that he might come around.

Harry was the last to notice her. In an instant, his countenance shifted to that of a spooked deer, holding himself incredibly still and watching her with wary anticipation. Clearly, he hadn't been expecting her approach.

Unsurprising.

"Er… hey…" he greeted her, a question implicit in his tone. _What are you doing here?_

"Wanted to shift our tutoring session up a bit," she announced, breezy, "since they changed my schedule at work. That alright with you?"

He stared at her. "What?"

"I'm pretty sure you don't have Quidditch practice this afternoon," she commented. "Unless you have prior engagements?"

She caught his brief wince. "Ehm. No, I don't. But…" His voice petered out.

"You're still struggling a bit with antidote fundamentals," she pointed out. "I want to make sure you're settled when I'm absent."

Harry cast a significant glance at his friends, his expression utterly bemused. "Right- of course," he murmured.

She flashed a grin to the other Gryffindors watching as Harry rose from his seat. When she began walking away, he caught up to her quickly, his voice hushed as he addressed her before they'd even made it past the doors. "You don't have to do that, you know."

"Do what?"

He frowned, hiking his school bag further up his shoulder. "Pretend like nothing happened."

"I just thought you'd prefer not to talk about it."

"Me?" he balked, incredulous. "What about _you?_ "

She rose an eyebrow. "I'm ready to talk whenever you're comfortable."

Harry stopped in his tracks to stare at her. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

She halted a few paces ahead once she realized he wasn't going to keep walking. "Nothing."

"No, really," Harry said, glaring. "Stop acting like this."

This was already exhausting. "I'm not sure what you want from me."

"Get angry! Tell me what a colossal prick I am! Get snide, or- or I don't _know!_ " he demanded with a huff. "Just do _something!_ "

"I don't know what people you hang around, but retaliation isn't my style," she told him, frowning.

"Yeah, well, not reacting at all is dodgy as hell!"

Her hands slid into her pockets, expression shifting to something more grim. "You fucked up. Really bad. _But_ , I know you're not a bad kid deep down. So, I figured before writing you off completely, I'd let you explain what happened."

"What?" Harry's hands slackened their hold on the strap of his bag, baffled. "You serious?"

 _That_ was the voice of someone who'd had a rough go of it. Someone who hadn't expected, but clearly needed, the reassurance. She watched him. "Yeah, I am."

For several seconds, he said nothing at all; his prolonged stare was fixed to her face. Then, at length, Harry commented, "We'd best be off before I _completely_ give up on studying."

"Well, I couldn't book us a workroom on such short notice," Cleo informed him, shrugging. "So wherever you feel like going."

"I don't care," he sighed, scratching the side of his head. "Just somewhere I won't have to run into any Gryffindors. They're… none too happy with me."

"I know that feeling," she joked, but the cold reception of her words killed _that_ attempt at levity pretty quick.

Right. Not in the mood for humor. "I think I know of a place, yeah."

"Good." Harry grimaced. "I'm all tapped out on thinking of good places to avoid people."

He followed her up the staircase and onto the third floor in silence. The mood between them was strange, but not uncomfortable; the boy just seemed… checked out. His mind was elsewhere.

When she reached the torn tapestry of Rigurd the Wise, Cleo gestured for Harry to hang back. Approaching the wall hanging, she cupped her hand around Rigurd's embroidered ear and whispered, " _His health and happiness._ "

The vertical cut in the tapestry swept aside to allow entry. Harry took a step forward and she glanced back at him before stepping through the patch of wall and into the room on the other side.

He emerged a second later, marvelling at the seemingly-solid wall behind them. "Just like the train platform…" he muttered, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," she breathed, indifferent. The magic didn't hold the same wonder anymore. "Just about."

They passed by a series of heavy draperies which divided the space into a semicircle of wedges around the defunct fireplace - their destination. It was where all the windows and couches were; Harry would feel more comfortable there than in the dark corners her housemates often frequented.

When they arrived, a fourth year girl looked up from the parchment she was writing on, took one look at Harry, and then left the room entirely without saying a word. If Harry was puzzled by that, he didn't show it; instead, he walked around the space unbidden, taking in the scenery. It wasn't much - just some bare, dusty bookshelves, a grouping of broken statues, a stack of eight trunks against the wall, some oak furniture weathered with age, a boarded up fireplace, old textiles covering the floors, and the odd decorations from past visitors.

Harry, for his part, was surveying the most prominent feature of the room: The larger-than-life statue of Merlin, fully intact and without a hint of cobwebs or dust. The stone beard billowed far above the Gryffindor's head. Though his eyes shone with curiosity, the rest of him seemed weighed down. Sluggish. He didn't ask her any questions. He just sat down on the floor at the foot of the statue.

When he cracked open his textbook, without prompting or preamble, she frowned. His energy, or lack thereof, was uncomfortably familiar. She settled on the rug beside him, cushioning their impending conversation with a soft, neutral, "Snape has set the antidotes quiz for this Friday. We'll just go over those until you have them down."

For a brief moment, she saw a shadow pass over his face. In the next instant, it was gone, though he still seemed rather sour. "Right. Lovely."

"Sorry," she attempted to smooth over, a smile arriving half-baked on her face. "Just thought maybe you'd want some buffer before we got into it."

"It's fine," he said. "I just hate everything about this subject so… what else is new."

"I meant about the fight."

"Oh." His expression was frozen between discomfort and chagrin. "Right, yeah, that… makes more sense."

She gestured toward him. "So…"

"Erm." Harry took in a bracing breath before looking at her squarely. "This is going to sound… I don't know."

"What?"

"Like I'm a bit mental," he remarked with a frown. "Like… I'm making excuses, when I'm… I _know_ it's an excuse, but that's not to say I think what happened was _good_ -"

"What does that even mean? Being mental?" she interjected, furrowing her brow. "You know it's okay to have struggles, right?"

"I know that," Harry replied, though there was a touch of defensiveness to his tone. "What I'm saying is- I wasn't myself, when I, you know. _Attacked_ you."

The phrase appeared to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Cleo nodded, sympathetic. "I've been there. I've been that angry. I didn't feel quite like myself either."

"I _wasn't_ angry," he stressed. "Not _that_ much- I was going to walk away like Hermione said! But suddenly I was casting spells at him, and everything went… _very_ wrong."

"You _were_ angry," she emphasized, frowning. "That's okay to admit. _I_ was angry. Truth be told, I was close to giving that snotty little prick a good smack myself."

"Look, Malfoy's an arse, but he's done worse before," Harry pointed out. "I've never put him in hospital over it. But this… this wasn't _right_. I wasn't just angry, I was… I mean I think I really wanted him to _bleed_ , and that's not _me_. He's an awful person, but I've never wished him _death_. It doesn't make sense to me at all."

"Harry, he taunted you about the fact that you're going to be killed," she pointed out, "by some genocidal maniac, no less. The same one who murdered your parents. The same one who wants to murder me and your best friend and everyone you care about. It's _okay_ to have felt a little out of control-"

"I have _never_ wanted to kill someone as much as I wanted to then," he cut her off. "And that includes all of the real life murderers I know! That feeling- it wasn't natural. And even if I really did 'just get that angry', that doesn't explain why I would have a go at _you_ , too."

"You were out of control and I tried to stop you. I was the next nearest object to vent your rage at."

"I'm not a violent person!"

"I'm not saying you're a violent person. Just that you were _being_ violent in that moment."

"No, that's not what I-" He cut himself off, visibly frustrated as he searched for his words.

She squinted, her expression twisting up before she shook her head. "Okay - we're clearly missing each other here. I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me. You were angry but you weren't angry. You did it but you didn't do it. What are you trying to say?"

His countenance was pained, but his words were adamant. "Malfoy must have done something to me."

" _How?_ "

Harry frowned. "Well, it would have to be dark magic, wouldn't it? How else?"

"That's not what I mean," she uttered, sighing. "My point is - how could he have? He didn't do anything. His wand was out, yes, but he didn't have _time_."

He was quiet for a moment. "I know. But I just… Even though I remember what happened, I just _know_ it wasn't me. Not really. I didn't lose control of my temper, I lost control of everything that makes me… _myself_. "

"So, what? He cast _Imperius_ on you or something?"

"No," he said, bringing his knees up to lay his arms on top of them. "I know what that feels like, and it doesn't work on me besides."

That was a hefty thing to claim. _Way_ more arrogant than she was used to hearing out of him. "There aren't a lot of mind control spells, you realize."

His lips twisted. "Yeah, I realize. But there's more to magic than just spells, you know? A potion, or- or a cursed object or something."

"I don't know of any potion that causes rage second-hand. And Malfoy didn't have much on him more than his wand."

"But you can't deny that it's a bit strange, isn't it? Malfoy getting into fights all the time, and now _this_. I mean, why did he even stop you?"

"Because he's a hot-headed bigot with something to prove," Cleo told him. "He doesn't have the same clout as he used to in his own House. All he has now is the ability to assert what little power he has on people he thinks are weaker than him."

"Well- sure," he conceded. "But why miss class to do it? If he only wants to terrorize people, he's doing a shoddy job of it, since _he's_ the one laid up in hospital all the time."

"I don't think he's trying to accomplish anything. I just think he's desperate and scared and lashing out."

Harry's nose wrinkled. "Malfoy's always up to something or other. There's got to be more to it than that."

She shrugged. "His father has been publicly outed as a terrorist and sent to Azkaban for it, which was a _complete_ blow to his family's reputation. Now even people who _agree_ with him can't associate with him if they want to remain crypto. Not to mention how the arrest in general has cast a huge spotlight on Slytherin as a whole and how it's been kept as a hotbed for fascist recruitment for God only knows how long. Which means Dumbledore has been cracking down, and _everyone_ blames him for it." Cleo's jaw tightened. "I don't think he has a lot of room to be up to much of anything. I don't think he's even in the mindset to maneuver out of this. He knows his life is basically over right now."

He was looking at her oddly. "That's very… thorough."

Her brow wrinkled. "It's just what the situation is."

Harry didn't reply, his gaze falling to the textbook laid by his side.

"I'm not saying he isn't dangerous," she assured him. "Someone with nothing to live for and even less to lose? But-" She grimaced into a pause, before leaning forward and lowering her voice, as if it were possible for the very walls to hear them if they weren't too careful. "You're trying to say he's - _taken the next step_ , am I right?"

"Well, it's like you said," he murmured, his eyes shifting toward the curtains dividing the room. "He's got nothing to lose. I mean, you'd think someone would start checking people's arms at some point…"

"They did," she informed him. "Beginning of the year. Did active checks for Dark Marks, even on the Muggleborns."

"What? _When?_ " he questioned. "I mean you said at the beginning of this year, but I never heard anything like that-!"

She frowned. "It's one of the main reasons Urquhart organized the Slytherin students to walk out during Dumbledore's speech at the Welcoming Feast. Returning Slytherins were checked the second we got off the train."

Harry frowned. "Guess that means Malfoy's clean," he mused, though he still looked troubled.

She shrugged. "Not necessarily."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," she exhaled, before lowering her voice again, "if I were the leader of a fascist movement that had lost its only advantage of being able to work undetected _because_ no one believed I was around, I'd reorganize. I'd stop marking my followers with something that easily identifies them to outsiders in a way that screams 'hey! I'm a domestic terrorist! Better stop me!' I'd start rethinking my recruitment strategies. I'd do everything I could to work in plain sight without announcing my presence."

Harry's expression was utterly confused. "So… you're saying he'd focus more on not getting caught, yeah?"

"It's the only way to proceed if he actually wants to accomplish anything," she argued.

"Then, Malfoy could be a Death Eater _right now_ , and there would be no way to know," he sighed.

"But he's a child," she whispered. "I cannot even fathom what someone like-" She let her sentence hang for a beat, looking at him knowingly, "-would want with someone like Malfoy."

Harry shrugged, though he did seem to consider it. His ruminations were troubling, if his furrowed brow was anything to go by, but he voiced none of them. Instead, he sat up straighter, expression clearing when he quipped, "As a general rule, I make it a habit not to think like Voldemort."

She pursed her lips. That name sounded idiotic when hearing it out loud. "You should start."

"Tried it," he intoned, giving her a look. "Didn't fancy it."

She rolled her eyes. "I don't mean agreeing with his beliefs. I'm talking about being aware of how people like him operate. That way there are no surprises." She sat up, eyes trained on him. " _Know your enemy_. Art of War, that kind of thing."

He didn't seem to appreciate her efforts; his expression dipped into annoyance. "I get it. Can we talk about something else?"

Okay.

"The point still stands. Malfoy is definitely volatile, probably dangerous. But I can't see him planning anything. And I don't see him having the means to have brute forced you into beating the shit out of both of us."

He folded his arms. "If you don't believe me, you can just say so."

"I don't know what to believe, Harry," she confessed, exasperated. "I live in a world where, with a word, I can make a bird appear, right into my hand. Out of nothing. Life out of nothing. Okay? So _nothing_ is off the table for me. I just don't understand how it happened and I'm trying to get clarity on it."

"You and me both," he commented, voice hollow. He passed a frustrated swipe over his eyes with a free hand. "At least you're talking to me at all."

"Well, you're my-"

She stopped herself, eyes diverting to her hands. _Friend_ , she was going to say. But that wasn't really true, was it?

"Well, anyway," she smoothed over with a hum. "You deserve the benefit of the doubt, is what I mean."

He blew out a breath. "That's- Ehm… thanks."

She looked him in the eye, then. "You really believe it was something Malfoy did?"

His stare didn't waver. "Yes."

Their eyes remained locked before she nodded, the break in contact feeling almost tangible. "Then I forgive you."

His smile was thin. Worried. "Just like that?"

"Even if it were anger, Harry, I would've forgiven you," she admitted. It wasn't like she was in a position to be throwing away allies willy-nilly. "I know you think Slytherins are basically the denizens of the damned, but I'm not really a vindictive person."

"I didn't think you were," he mentioned, off-hand, taking up the Potions book again.

A breath pushed itself out her nose as she mirrored his movement, pulling the cover off her textbook. "Okay."

He was quiet long enough for her to think the conversation was over, but the silence was broken by his address. "Hey, ehm… Cleo?"

Cleo…?

She sat up straighter. "Yes?"

Harry's posture shifted, matching hers, though his gaze was pensive. "I'm sorry," he told her, quiet and sincere. "For… for what happened. What I did."

"It's not your fault," she assured him, if anything, to show that she _did_ believe what he was telling her. "It's okay, Harry. Thank you."

A puff of air whooshed out of him. "It's really not, but I'm going to find out what happened." _If it kills me_ , she heard, even if he didn't say it.

"Well you know who to come to for overly convoluted insights into Slytherin politics," she lobbed at him, off-hand.

"Everything about Slytherins seems overly complicated, so you can hardly be blamed," he remarked, a fledgling smile curling the corners of his mouth.

Her smile was lop-sided. "You're probably right about that."

They lapsed into a comfortable quiet, punctuated by turning pages and the occasional murmured question. Although 'occasional' was, perhaps, being generous; Harry seemed to have no end of inquiries, and would only fall into silence for a few minutes at a time.

Still, the hour passed gently, and Harry seemed well soothed by it.

Lacing his fingers behind his neck, he arched his back. "I don't think I can read another potion recipe. My head is about to explode."

"I appreciate the effort," she offered as some paltry comfort, "considering the fact that we didn't really have to study this at all."

"Well, I didn't want to waste your time," he commented, stretching his arms over his head.

"Not really a waste," she remarked. "I'm free until work."

The boy cast his gaze around, surveying the stack of trunks in the corner. "How'd you find this place, by the way?"

Her shrug carried itself, lackadaisical, as she watched him. "Open House secret, I guess."

His observational mien turned critical. " _I've_ never heard of this place." This statement was uttered with the undercurrent that it was a personal affront.

"You wouldn't have," she pointed out. "It's a Slytherin hang out. You can't get in without the dorm password."

He leaned back to frown at the statue of Merlin. "Odd place to put a password on."

"I'm sure this was meant to be some sort of… I don't know, posh little study or lounge room for the _noble_ Slytherins during Salazar's time or whatever but-" She shrugged again. "The Sacred 28 and their lot don't stop by much anymore. So it's a nice little hideout for the rest of us."

"Shouldn't it be in the dungeons, then?"

"I don't know. I'm not the castle's architect."

"Yeah. I don't suppose you are," Harry remarked, absent-minded. Standing, he wandered over to the mantle of the boarded-up fireplace, peering at the banner hanging there. It slouched after months of neglect, _Justice for Montague!_ drooping along the edges of the wrinkled cloth.

"Were you one of them?" he asked, turning back toward her. "The ones who walked out on Dumbledore at the start of term?"

She shook her head. "The first demonstration was chaotic and disorganized. I had no idea what it was trying to communicate at the time, other than being disgruntled with Dumbledore. It could've stood for a million other things _outside_ of the target on Slytherin's back. I didn't want to risk associating myself."

He grimaced as he turned away from the banner, his apparent restlessness dipping him into a meandering circle about the couch before he halted just beside the armrest. "I don't understand Slytherins," he admitted with a frustrated sigh.

"I suppose we are a little tricky, yes," she offered, a gentle smile creasing her face.

"That's not it," he said, arms crossing. "I mean- If you didn't know what they were about, then why didn't you just ask?"

That familiar bristle of irritation made itself a home at the base of her skull. It took everything in her to restrain herself from the eye roll and sarcastic retort that _belonged_ as a natural response to something so _obviously_ naive-

But he didn't know. He didn't _mean_ how it sounded. So-

"Because it's like navigating a minefield, being in Slytherin," she explained, doing her level best to sound as patient as possible. "There are people in there who genuinely want to see me dead. And sometimes the best thing you can do is make yourself as small and inoffensive as possible. Avoid obvious confrontation. If that demonstration had _anything_ to do with supporting _Voldemort_ \- " she grimaced; no, it wasn't sounding any less stupid, "-then putting myself in the line of fire isn't advantageous to me in the slightest."

"I don't see why they couldn't have been more clear from the start," Harry mentioned, plopping down to sit on the armrest. "Why are Slytherins all about appearances and plots and… _hiding_ the truth?"

"Why do you handle conflict the way you do?" she questioned. "Why do you feel things the way you do? Why do you think the way you do?" With her eyes trained on him, she didn't allow him much time to ponder the question before she went on, "It's just the type of people we are. It would probably seem way less strange to you if they didn't segregate us like this."

"Who is 'they'?" he countered, frowning. "Slytherins are the ones who keep themselves apart, who step on other people to get by-"

"Slytherins aren't a monolith," she lobbed back, unable to sufficiently veil the annoyance in her tone. "My son's deadbeat father was a Gryffindor; do you think it would be fair if I measured the entirety of your House based on his actions?"

Harry stared at her. "Wait- really?"

It occurred to her rather suddenly that the information she'd supplied wasn't… well, anything obvious to anyone but her. Of course it wasn't. She didn't tend to be candid with the details.

"Yeah," she sighed. "He was a seventh year and I was in my sixth. Benjamin Stockton."

"Aren't you in sixth year now?" he asked, visibly confused.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Yes?"

"And you were gone for two years…?"

"Yes…?"

"How-?" He hesitated, frowning. "How old are you?"

Right. She supposed _that_ had never come up either. "I just turned twenty."

"Twenty?!" he echoed. "I didn't think you were _that_ old!"

She sat up. "It's not 'that old'," she huffed.

"I thought- I don't know." Harry's arms folded. "I suppose I didn't really think about it, much."

"I guess I can't blame you for that," she conceded. "It's not terribly common."

"That's… I mean, I just didn't expect-" His gaze was cast at the floor. "Must be… strange. Y'know. Being back."

In her view, it was _more_ strange that they were going over all this again. But perhaps the entirety of the situation hadn't quite settled on him until that moment. "It has been."

"I've not been a very good friend to you, have I?"

Her brow furrowed. What was _that_ about?

"We weren't really friends then," she objected.

"Not really an excuse for suspecting you of conspiring with Malfoy," he pointed out. "Or letting Ron be as rude as he was, or-"

"Is this productive?" she asked him, abrupt, as she frowned at him. "Does dredging up every little mistake you've made help you at all?"

"What?" He looked at her strangely, not comprehending. "I'm just saying- I should be trying harder, is all. I haven't even been tutoring you like I said I would."

"We've study grouped enough," she insisted, albeit a bit exasperated. "Or will you find a way to blame yourself for the fact my magic doesn't work in the way Professor Tenenbaum needs?"

"Tenenbaum's a whole different thing; I just want you to do alright on your N.E.W.T.-"

"Well, fantastic news - I'm not sitting in for the Defense N.E.W.T."

"What?" he balked. "Why?"

"Because I don't need it."

"Don't you need it to be a healer?"

"Not even remotely."

Harry stared into the middle distance, brow creased. "Huh."

There was a weightiness in her limbs as she rubbed the side of her face with her hand. "So you can absolve yourself of whatever imagined responsibility you tow for _my_ school success."

With a grimace, he mentioned, "Well, now it feels like I can't repay you for all the Potions help you've been giving me."

"The fact you think this needs to be some sort of transaction is concerning," she remarked.

"It doesn't _have_ to be." Harry hunched over, leaning on his knees, his tone sheepish. "I just… thought I was contributing, but I wasn't."

"You've helped me where you can," she assured, trying to not sound as tired as she felt. "Need I remind you again that it's _not your fault_ that I cannot cast offensive spells?"

"I _know_ ," was his mild grouse. "But- _why_ can't you? It just doesn't make sense."

She hesitated for a moment as she floundered for the right answer; she knew exactly why, but it felt so stupid to say. "Because of how I taught myself how to control my magic."

Harry eyed her. "What do you mean? Didn't you do it how the professors taught you?"

There was an irritated air with which she shrugged; all the energy of someone who'd just been cornered. "I guess, yeah? At first? But my magic was always so wild. Explosive. Sometimes just refusing to work entirely. I only started getting the hang of things when I-" she faltered, lips pursing. It took another second for her to pick up her thought where she'd left it. "I set intentions, like my mum taught me. And things started to work the way I needed them to."

"Setting intentions…?" he echoed. "Isn't that just visualization? Because we were definitely taught that."

"It's more than that," she emphasized. "It's manifesting my will; manifesting what I _want_."

"Well, yeah, Professor Flitwick always did stress that 'confidence is key'…" Harry said, his voice assuming a slight recreation of the professor's usual inflection as he repeated the phrase.

"No, I don't mean confidence," she stressed, a little more harshly than she intended. "I just mean- I need to _want_ it. Like _really_ want it. I need to _want_ to make it happen."

He was quiet for a moment, evidently contemplating. "Doesn't that just mean you need to… I don't know. Make yourself _want_ harder for the spells you can't do?"

"I- _don't_ , though," her response meandered from her, cryptic and timid.

"But why not?" Harry pressed, looking at her. "A lot of what we're learning in class is really useful."

"Because I don't-" She exhaled, the force of it enough to push her body forward as she buried her face into her hands. "I can't make myself _want_ to hurt someone. I can't imagine myself doing it. I can't make myself want to make that happen."

He stared. "What, not even to make that tiny cut on my arm in Charms? You were just going to heal it anyway!"

"What do you want me to say?" she balked, looking up at him. "I know it sounds stupid. But it's the truth."

"I don't think it's stupid, it's just… I've never heard anything like it," he commented, scratching his head. "But, y'know- There's all sorts of things I've not heard about."

"I guess."

Then, Harry's gaze turned shrewd. "Wouldn't that mean you really _didn't_ want to smack Malfoy after all?"

"You got me," she lobbed back, blithe, as she lifted her hands in surrender. "I didn't want to be the one to do it, anyway. Talk big. Can't deliver. Still think he deserved it, though."

"Rather someone else do your dirty work for you?" he questioned, sardonic.

"I guess that's one way of putting it." Cleo shrugged. "I'm not against the idea of violence. Sometimes it's necessary. Like, fighting Voldemort-" Jesus _Christ_ that name, "- I wouldn't lament about how things could be 'more peacefully resolved.' I just- I don't know if I could do it myself. I don't know if I have it in me. No matter how much I hate someone."

His reply was stiff. "You'd be surprised what you'll do under pressure."

"I don't think I ever want to be in that position," she remarked. "But you're probably right."

"I hope you never are."

She leaned forward, rapping her knuckles on the weathered mahogany table. "Me too."

He sat up, rotating his shoulder before his attention settled back on her. "Hold on, so- before, you said your magic didn't work very well until you er, 'manifested what you wanted'-" The phrase seemed to sit uncomfortably in his mouth. "But, didn't you want to cast spells before you figured that out?"

"No, not at all," she confessed. "I never wanted to come here. I never wanted any of this."

"'Here', as in- You never wanted to go to _Hogwarts?_ " Harry murmured, aghast, as he slid off the armrest and onto the proper seat of the sofa. " _Why?!_ "

Plenty of reasons. All of them somehow too difficult to encapsulate into something she could readily voice.

Until one arrived at the forefront of her mind, so unbidden and unwelcome that she scowled.

Because it shouldn't have been me.

Her jaw misaligned as she clenched it, her next few moments spent marching out a line of thought that would satisfy his curiosity. "I didn't want to spend ninety percent of my year in a boarding school away from my family in a world I'd never known or understood. It terrified me. I only ever wanted to go back home so I could be myself again."

"But-" He paused, similarly casting about for what to say. "Magic is- It's _amazing_. I can't imagine what my life would be like without it."

"It'd be fine," she averred. "A majority of the population live without it and have long, fulfilling lives. You can be happy without it."

"I mean, I could _live_ , sure," Harry commented, leveling a perturbed look at her. "But happy? No, I don't think I could ever be happy without it."

"Maybe _you_ can't," she conceded, feeling her hackles rise. "But plenty of us can. Plenty of us _do_. And we're no worse off for it, either."

"Why's there got to be an 'us' and 'them' at all?" he challenged, his tone dark.

"There doesn't have to be," she shot back, eyes narrowing. "But _you_ put up the divide _every time_ that you place magic as superior. _Every time_ a wizard speaks as if magic is the pinnacle of human achievement, success, or the ultimate measure of happiness, you separate us-"

"I'm _not_ like that-!"

" _I'm_ not done speaking." The words stomped down between them, silencing him forthright. She took a sharp breath through her nose. "I don't know how often I have to sit there and _listen_ to people speak about the Muggle world as if it's inherently _lesser_ because of its lack of 'power' - whatever the hell _that_ means."

"Who is 'people'?! I never said-!"

She threw her hands up. "We're the same! You get that? The same. Magical, non-magical - two sides, same coin. And I'm _so_ tired of having to choose sides. I'm _both_. Take all my magic away tomorrow and I'd still be me. Magic is something I can _do_ , but it doesn't _define_ me."

In a second, Harry was standing again, jabbing a finger in her direction and raising his voice. "That's all well and good for _you_ , but magic is all I _bloody_ have! "

"That's sure as hell selling yourself short," she accused.

"If you hate magic so much, then leave!" he shouted, his gesture toward the door a touch frantic. "I didn't come here to be called a _freak_ because of how I live my _life-_ "

"I never once called you a freak and I never, _ever_ would," she seethed, crossing her arms. "Do you even _hear_ yourself right now? Leave? You want to add ' _you Mudblood_ ' to that, too?"

His teeth clenched, Harry spat, "You didn't believe me at all, did you? You think I'm violent and unstable, just like everyone else does."

"I think you love assuming a lot of things," she returned, every word punctuated with virulence. "I think you love jumping to conclusions and making grand, sweeping generalizations about shit you have _no_ knowledge of whatsoever."

"And _you_ think you're _better_ than everyone," he shot back, "because you're so sodding ' _normal_ '! "

"Yep, you've got me down to a T," she answered, acerbic. "As always, your insights are so biting and exact. _So_ scientific."

Harry made a noise of disgust. "God, you sound like _Snape_ , " he sneered, snatching up his bag.

She knew it was meant as an insult; it certainly wasn't a _good_ accusation, but she couldn't find offense at the comparison. She watched as he stomped around to gather his books and quills, her own irritation barely diffusing, even though sobriety was setting in. This was not what _either_ of them needed.

The stares of the other occupants of the room boring down on the two of them didn't help either.

Yet, she said nothing. Not one word as he stormed out of the study, almost knocking two second years over in the process.

And even in that flurry of anger, she could hear him uttering an apology to the group before his footfalls faded from the corridor.

Very Harry. Just like him.

An inane, pointless observation.

But one she couldn't help herself from noting.

A sigh rang out of her, all hollowed out, as she leaned back against the sofa.

So much for not squandering allies.

••••••••••

Her name was Violet Ayers.

She was sixteen years old, a Ravenclaw Alumni, a Muggleborn…

… and part of an ongoing investigation into her own abduction.

Cleo wasn't privy to the particulars - even Pye, who had been present for the first witness interview, was tight-lipped when it came to divulging what he'd heard. For the best, really. It wasn't her business. But the sadness in his eyes when he relayed the fact that Violet was a "very brave girl" spoke wonders.

Cleo hadn't seen her since she first woke up. She was swamped by Aurors for hours at a time and, during the more sensitive parts of her interviews, only a select few Healers and Minders were allowed through. So it was a surprise when she was summarily asked to deliver the girl's afternoon regimen of potions, despite the fact she was still with the pink-haired Auror Cleo had witnessed enter the ward an hour earlier.

"It's the final interview, so you should be alright to go in when they're wrapping up," Pye assured after her initial protest.

If anything, this statement left room for a line of inquiry she'd wanted to touch on for a while now. "So, then, if it's over, then we can finally get in contact with her parents-"

The man's auburn bangs shuffled against his brow as he shook his head. "Not yet."

"What?" Cleo's gaze screwed up as she took a step toward him, lowering her voice. "Why?"

"Couldn't tell you," Pye offered, his voice modulating itself to a low murmur as well. "Not my decision."

"But she desperately wants to see them," she objected. "'Dad' was the first thing she said when she woke up. And as parents, they have a _right_ to know-"

"No, they don't."

It surprised her, the nonchalance that permeated his voice. How unperturbed he appeared. How utterly banal the information seemed to be, how unremarkable.

Taken aback, Cleo's brow furrowed. "What do you mean they don't?"

Now _he_ appeared confused, before his expression twitched, as if he remembered _what_ she was all over again. It made her uncomfortable. "Oh. Well- hm. How to explain-"

The man shifted in place, shoulders raising up slightly as he bobbed his head in consideration. "All a bit routine at this point but - Muggle parents don't really have parental rights over their children. Not the way Wizard parents do."

"What?"

His hands came up as he shrugged. "Muggles aren't citizens of the Wizarding World, right? And it's impossible to anticipate which Muggles are going to end up having magical children. I suppose, in the Ministry's opinion, giving blanket rights to Muggles is a bit nonsensical, if not dangerous, so-"

 _Dangerous_.

Her eyes narrowed slightly in disgust. Pye, catching himself, prattled on, " _I_ don't think they are! I'm just speaking to the perspective of politicians, see? I mean these bylaws have been in place since the time of Merlin, y'know, when people were still happily 'burning witches' and the like. So, the idea of making Muggles citizens in what is essentially a _private_ society seems a bit counter intuitive, no?"

He looked at her as if she was supposed to see the sense in it. Instead, she scowled, uttering a sharp, "So, what? Muggle parents aren't the legal guardians of their magical children?"

"Not in the eyes of the Ministry, no."

Confounded, Cleo sputtered, "What does that mean? Are all Muggleborns wards of the state, or something?"

"Sort of," Pye agreed. "I mean right now it works a bit like this - Muggleborn children are often in the guardianship of the magical school they attend. The headmaster is liable to the well being of those students and all decisions regarding their care, education, et cetera, are in their hands."

 _That_ bit of information brought clarity to the many questionable decisions Cleo had witnessed at Hogwarts over the years, but… "My parents submitted my request for temporary withdrawal from Hogwarts when I was pregnant, though."

Pye's mouth slanted. "Doesn't matter. That was an unnecessary formality on their part. Dumbledore decided to grant that. He could've refused and there was nothing your parents could've done."

Her heart dropped. To even _think_ that the fate of her pregnancy had been left in the hands of a man that didn't even know how to _help_ her-

"What about Violet, then?" her words lanced through that line of thought before she went down that rabbit hole. "She's not a Hogwarts student anymore. Is she legally an adult or-"

"Violet?" Pye's brow furrowed briefly before his expression cleared and he shook his head. "Ah, you mean Miss Ayers- she won't be considered an adult until she's seventeen. So for now, a witch from MOG is in charge of decisions about her medical care."

"What, like a guardian ad litem?"

His eyes brightened. "Oh, you've got those too? Yeah. Like that."

"But, how in the world are they supposed to know what's good for her? Medically?" Cleo pressed, exasperated. "Better than her parents? Who know her history? Who know who she _is?_ "

The Healer merely shrugged. "I don't agree with the law. It makes things incredibly difficult for us at times. But that's how it is."

He sounded so resigned. _Just how things are?_ How was that even remotely a suitable answer?

"So when _can_ she see her parents?" Cleo pressed, trying to tamp down her own impending anxiety.

"I suppose when the Auror's investigation is concluded, or perhaps when she's fully recovered enough to be released from care."

Her head rushed with a sense of panic, of empathy. "She's been missing. For _weeks_. They probably think she's dead. So we're just going to allow them to continue to _think_ that?"

"Oh, no," Pye had the audacity to allow these words to slip out of him with an incredulous chuckle. "No, Aurors aren't usually that cruel. I don't know personally, but I imagine the lead investigators on her case have already dropped by her home to inform her parents of her status."

Like that was any better. Her nausea roiled in her stomach, coiled and heavy. "But then tell them they're not allowed to see her until _someone else_ decides that it's appropriate for them to?"

Pye's smile was sad. "Unfortunately, yes."

Cleo threw her head toward the ceiling. "That's fucked up."

"It is," the man agreed softly. "But don't use language like that in the hospital, please."

She wasn't in the mood to be tone policed. The way she looked at him said as much.

To her surprise, he rose up slightly, his expression growing more stern than she'd seen it before. "I mean it, Cleo. This is a professional setting. If you can't handle this, then I can easily ask someone else to attend to Miss Ayers and her medical needs-"

"Fine," Cleo cut in, the word rushed out on an exasperated breath. She gave herself a moment to school her expression, forcing her posture to relax. "You're right. I apologize. I can do it."

He looked her over as if her contrition was a bit difficult to swallow, but eventually relaxed as well. He apparently felt generous enough to throw her a bone, too. "I know stuff like this is hard to hear. Really. And I sympathize. I really do. But we can't lose our composure. Ever."

Cleo's face remained carefully neutral. "Understood."

The deadness of her tone must have gotten to him because, in a moment, he shifted in place, uncomfortable. "I'll talk to Poke about the situation with her parents. I'm not promising anything, but I'll see what I can do."

Taking the nearby tray of Violet's evening potions off the lab counter, Cleo nodded. "Thanks."

Seeing this as a cue, the Healer cast a _Tempus_ and hummed as he noted the time. "Good thinking," he complimented, but it felt hollow and wrong. "Best get to it. You're okay to clock out after you bring back and clean the vials."

She was halfway through the lab when she called back with a deadened and unenthused, "Sure."

One floor up, six doors down. The Curse Reversal Ward, private room three. Cleo was relieved to not have to ask for directions; she was finally starting to feel comfortable with the hospital's layout. Raising a hand to knock on the slightly-opened door, she hesitated when a voice drifted through the crack.

"... appreciate it. If you'd be willing, of course," the Auror was saying. She was seated beside the bed, one leg crossed at the ankle and a rolled parchment and quill resting in her lap.

Violet was leaning back against her pillow. Her response was a feeble, half-hearted nod.

"The process is very easy. No pain, no discomfort, and the evidence makes it easier in the long run to prosecute."

After a languid blink, Violet's voice peeked out. "When?"

"After I get approval from my superior for use of a Pensieve," the pink-haired woman promised, leaning over to place her hand on Violet's leg. The girl jerked away and, not missing a beat, the Auror pulled her hand back into her lap. She spoke as if she hadn't noticed the rejection at all. "Then I'll come back, we'll get the procedure done, and you can focus your time on recovering."

Violet's gaze meandered from the woman's face to the ceiling, before it settled to where Cleo was standing and remained. Quite steadfast. Cleo's blood ran cold, like she'd been caught.

Hesitating for only a second, Cleo pushed open the door, her tone apologetic as she excused herself, "Sorry- I, ah… It's time for your afternoon- I mean, I can wait out in the hallway until you're finished-"

"No, we're wrapping up," the Auror assured her, affectation much more chipper than seemed appropriate on a cop. "I should leave you to it. Unless you have any more questions, Miss Ayers?"

Violet frowned, her head tilting as she seemed to consider something. Then, "My parents?"

The words were tired and practiced, like this hadn't been the first time they were uttered. And, considering the situation, they probably weren't. The Auror's response confirmed as much: Her smile grew sad as she looked Violet over in silence, before rising from her seat with a cordial, "I'll see you when we get approval for the Pensieve, Miss Ayers. Rest well."

The woman excused herself with a slight smile thrown in Cleo's direction, the sound of her footsteps pitching in the disappointed silence she'd left behind. When they finally shuffled out, Cleo stood there, eyes anchored to Violet's body. Tipped over. Wrung out. Nothing left to give.

Shit.

It seemed wrong to follow _that_ up with some nonsense about how she needed to take her medicine. Her arms lowered, glasses clinking against one another as they were jostled on the tray. Violet didn't acknowledge the disturbance, gaze tethered to the side of her bed.

The silence turned expectant. Looked her straight in the eye and bade her, _get on with it_. Get on with it. _Get on with it_. Tell her what to do, what to take. Tell her what she needs. But her stomach churned with that electric combination of guilt and nausea.

Knowing, just _knowing_ , that Violet would've done whatever she said felt like a violation of the worst kind. It wasn't comparable, she understood that. But still somehow-

The vials chattered amongst each other as she set the tray down on the bedside table before she occupied the seat the Auror had abandoned. She folded her hands into her lap.

And she waited.

For how long couldn't be measured.

Long enough, probably. Long enough for Violet to grow perplexed with the arrangement, her pillow sinking beneath her elbow as she forced herself to sit up.

"What are you doing?"

Cleo's curls slid off her shoulder as she looked up. "Thought you'd want time before I started bothering you."

The girl stared at her, apparently still trying to work out what she'd just said. When she couldn't really make sense of it, she offered a feeble, "I thought I needed to take my medicine?"

"Do you want to do that now?"

Violet blinked. "Huh?"

"I can wait here until you're ready."

Her eyes drifted from Cleo's face to the line of bottles on the table in gradual swoops. "Don't I need them?"

"Yes."

The girl frowned.

Cleo's intentions hadn't quite landed.

So they stared at each other in silence.

However, when it got too unbearable, Cleo sat back. "Just- talking to the police, I guess, is hard. Especially when you're discussing trauma. I figured you were-"

Cleo's hands gestured vaguely in the air before dropping to her lap once they'd inexplicably helped her find the word she'd lost. "Overwhelmed."

"Overwhelmed." The word sounded odd coming from Violet; tumbling halfway out her mouth, somehow both chagrined and castigated. Her eyes were having a hard time finding Cleo's.

Cleo's head dipped into an absent-minded nod, before a self-effacing chuckle tripped out of her, dead on arrival. "Is that dumb?"

"No." This response was unflinching. One that seemed a little too nervous about sounding harsh. For once, Violet's posture relaxed in a way that didn't have the sag of the infirmed or the impression of a corpse. "I can't keep track of how things feel anymore." Her expression twitched, nose scrunching up as if she were trying to fight back something painful. "Is _that_ dumb?"

"No." Just as unflinching. Unapologetic.

Violet's laugh shimmied out and carried the threat of tears with them, ones that she bit back with that familiar, off-put grimace, before her expression deadened again.

"So I can wait," Cleo concluded, eyes trained on the droop of her body.

"Don't you have other patients?"

"You're my last one."

"Before what?"

"Before I leave."

Violet squinted at the bed. "I'd think you'd want to go home."

"I do," Cleo admitted. "I have a train to catch in an hour. But I can wait for a little bit."

The girl flexed her fingers in her lap, glancing to the wall that stood over Cleo's shoulder. "No offense, but you're kind of weird."

Her smile was tender. "And you're honest."

Violet's agitation settled into her as she grew more restless, fingers fidgeting in their harried attempt to grasp at air. "I really don't get this."

Cleo frowned. "Am I scaring you?"

She grimaced again. All teeth. "A little."

"I'm sorry, I-" Cleo lurched forward in her seat, her sigh kicking itself out of her. "I just- it didn't really feel right foisting your medication on you after what you've had to deal with. I thought you'd maybe like a say in it, a chance to recover from your interview, the ability to consent-"

"Oh."

That was it. Every inch of apprehension expelled from her with the arrival of that sound. _Oh_. Like she'd stumbled upon something that should've been obvious.

Her eyes pinned themselves to Cleo's shoulder. "I get it now."

"I'm sorry, that must have-"

"No, it's okay, I just uhm-" Violet stammered, her head bobbing from side to side as she appeared to consider something. "It's been overwhelming, like you said. I get it now. I appreciate it. That was nice of you."

She had a hard time believing that, considering how bungled the attempt had been. At the very least, the girl was kind. Incredibly gracious.

"I remember you now, actually," the girl continued without the chance for Cleo to recover. "The one who was there when I woke up. You talked to me while putting that lotion stuff on me."

Cleo's expression was a little pained. "You remember that?"

"Kind of hard to," Violet admitted. "On account of the sleepiness. But, uhm. I remember the sound of your voice. Sorta like-" Her mouth bit down on a few garbled hums that tried to sound like words, before she shrugged. "Like that. Except more you. I think that's what woke me up."

"I hope that's good," Cleo put in, tender.

Violet's head dropped in a nod, though it was unbalanced and stymied by the way her expression winced as her thoughts trailed out of her mouth, unimpeded by any sense of inhibition. "I don't know if it is, sometimes."

She regretted saying it, if her grimace was anything to go by.

Impulse to mouth. Just like Harry.

But this was different in a way she couldn't place. Maybe less impulse. More like compulsion. Her honesty compelled itself to be revealed.

Oversharing, maybe. But Cleo wasn't going to judge.

"I think it's good you're still with us," she imparted, her hands clasping in her lap. "Though I know that's hard to swallow with the consideration that you're the one having to be here. With the burden. So-"

It felt very specious, her sympathy. So much so that during their silence, she couldn't bear to look the other girl in the eye.

But Violet's response forced her to, with all the shame it carried in the aftermath of that bleak pause. "Thank you."

"Don't," Cleo objected, the weight of her own frown pulling her forward in her seat. "You don't have to feel like-"

"No, just," the girl cut in, looking down at her hands. "Thank you. For not making me feel guilty about the fact I wish I wasn't here."

The weight of that sentiment, _I wish I wasn't here_ , was familiar when it settled on Cleo's frame. A strain she was disturbingly comfortable with carrying. Emotional muscle memory kicking in, taking the load, practiced; making her sick, troubling her. Exercised just enough that the idea couldn't shock her anymore.

Didn't know what that said about her, really.

Not that it mattered.

This wasn't even about her.

Violet wasn't smiling, exactly; it just looked like there was a slight tear where her mouth should've been. "See," she emphasized, her levity still managing to have some weight to it. "I'm the weird one now."

"Not weird just," Cleo's eyes went to the ceiling. "Sad."

She could feel Violet's stare bore into her for a long while. She was considering something. Cleo didn't push.

Then, it came, as casual as her last admission. "Do you think it's bad? To die?"

The sound of Cleo's laugh was harsh. A solitary sound that burst out of her and quickly faded from her lips. "That's heavy."

Violet's shrug was in her voice. "You don't have to answer."

Cleo lowered her gaze back to the bed. "I don't think it's bad or good," she explained. "I just think it _is_."

The girl's lips twisted.

"Why? Do you think it's bad?"

Another shrug. "I don't know. I don't even know why I asked."

"Has it been on your mind?"

For the first time, Violet met her stare. It was a brief, albeit intense, contact. "I have a lot of things on my mind."

"We don't have to talk about the heavy things, you know," Cleo offered. "We don't have to talk about anything at all if you don't want to."

She started scratching the back of her hand. "I don't know what I want."

Cleo watched the movement, the way Violet's overgrown fingernails dug hard into the flesh of her knuckles. "That must be frustrating."

A soft hum found a home against the girl's lips. "Dad used to help with that," she divulged. "Sorting out everything, you know, when it got to be too much."

"Yeah?"

Violet nodded. "Now it's just like, there's too much. And I don't know how to talk about it, I guess. Or make sense of it." She ceased her scratching, letting her arms stretch out toward her legs. "So now I'm just saying things."

"That's okay," Cleo assured her. "It's not a bad thing, trying to process."

"The detective didn't like it," Violet commented, off handed. "And I mean, I get why, I guess. I have to explain what happened. They need to keep me on the facts. I have to recount everything. But it gets hard."

"I'm sorry."

Her brow crinkled as she squinted in Cleo's direction. "Why?"

"Because it sucks that you have to be the one who has to deal with all this," she told her. "It's awful when someone else does something horrible and you have to clean up the mess."

Violet's expression loosened. "It's unfair," she concurred. "I don't know how to understand _unfair_."

"Maybe you're not meant to."

The girl's expression scrunched up again. "I don't like that."

Leaning back in her seat, Cleo exhaled. "Yeah, it's a bit bullshit, isn't it?"

Then, something Cleo quite hadn't expected, but was pleased to hear: The same sort of short laugh exploded out of Violet, so violent that Cleo was momentarily fearful that it might have hurt her. Despite the recovery she'd made, she still looked so… _fragile_.

The corner of Cleo's lips twitched upward. "What?"

For the first time, she noticed Violet's smile. Very faint. Sweet. Where it belonged. "I didn't expect you to say that."

"I'm not supposed to." Cleo leaned forward again, lowering her voice, all conspiratorial. "So don't tell my boss."

Violet swiped her fingers across her lips and threw away the key.

And then, in sync, their faces fell to their hands, the remnants of the joke lingering on their lips until it faded into the quiet.

It didn't feel right, dithering. Inappropriate, maybe. But she didn't want to bring up the matter of medicine.

Scratching behind her ear, Cleo sat up again, prompting the girl with a soft, "Sorry, this is dumb, but I really like your tattoos."

Violet didn't react. Her fingers smoothed over her wrist as she stared at it.

"I noticed them the day you woke up," Cleo explained. "Didn't know there were even magical tattoos."

"Me neither."

Cleo frowned as she watched Violet push her arms under her blankets, her lips pursing before her eyes drifted to Cleo's knee. "They're not mine."

Cleo squinted. "I don't…"

"He put them on me."

She didn't know who he was, but the girl's tone communicated enough. A noise strangled in Cleo's throat as she buried her face in her hands, its remains falling out a few seconds later, strained. " _Shit_."

Violet laughed again. Magnitudes weaker. "Shit."

Cleo's voice collected in her hands, muffled and heavy. "I am _so_ bad at this."

"Is anyone _good_ at it?" Violet countered.

Her hands scraped down to prop her head up by the neck as she frowned at the girl. "Someone _has_ to be."

"Yeah?"

Cleo's grin was self effacing. "Just not me."

Violet's stare, although kind, was an accusation. "But you thought you'd be."

"You know, I guess I did," Cleo admitted, slouching in her seat. "Kind of stupid, now that you say it out loud."

"Not stupid," Violet promised. "Just-"

The sound of her exhale carved her in half. She fell back against her pillow. Cleo picked up Violet's thought from where she had dropped it. "Just?"

"This is real life," she explained. "And things are complicated."

Yeah.

Things were complicated.

It was sitting there, basking in the lukewarm glow of Violet's company, that Cleo realized how out of her fucking depth she was. And to think she could have provided her any solace was laughable at best, arrogant at _worst_.

But there was that laugh again, disrupting the flow of her thoughts. Sharp and sweet but _pungent_. Short lived. A _cough_ of humor. Violet gestured toward her vaguely. "And for the record, your taste in tattoos is _garbage_."

"Probably." It wouldn't have served her to mention she'd been trying to be polite. She didn't know what that said about her. "Well, if it _were_ your choice - what would you get?"

It didn't take long for Violet to deliberate. "Treguna Mekoides Trecorum Satis Dee."

Cleo's raised eyebrow was enough for Violet to excuse herself with a soft, "It's from something stupid, but means a lot to me."

"No, like," Cleo blurted, pensive, "it sounds familiar, is all."

"It's from Bedknobs and Broomsticks," Violet informed her, very deliberately turning her head to face the other wall.

"Oh!" Cleo gasped. "The Disney flick? With Angela Lansbury?"

Her eyes remained deliberately averted. "Mhmmm."

"Wow, that brings me back," Cleo mused with a wistful sigh. "Don't think I've seen that film since I was a kid."

Violet's demeanor darkened. "Yeah, well…"

"That was a spell from it, right?"

The girl took a moment to stare at her, warily, before proceeding. "Yeah."

"Like the uh," she stammered, deep in thought. "The big one, right? The one they were looking for the entire time."

Something pleasant twitched onto Violet's expression. "Yeah."

"I think I remember the song, too, a little bit-" Cleo paused briefly, before her voice warbled, albeit off tune. " _Substitutiary locomotion; mystic power that's far beyond the wildest notion_ \- "

Her voice petered off as the next lyric escaped her; she sat there, trying to remember, before Violet cut in, much prettier, " _It's so weird, so feared, yet wonderful to see_ \- "

Then, together.

" _Substitutiary locomotion come to me!_ "

They shared breath with a laugh as Cleo scooted her chair closer to the bed. "God, yeah. Amazing how that comes back after all these years."

Violet uttered, for the fourth time but much lighter, "Yeah."

"So, uhm," Cleo broached, leaning toward her. "Why that one in particular?"

Violet rolled her eyes, carried by no emotion in particular. It felt like a nervous action. "It's going to sound dumb."

"Try me."

The girl's shoulders shrugged, dismissive. "Just- it's not what the spell is, but what it means."

"It made objects move on their own, right?"

"Well, yeah," Violet confirmed, twisting in her bedsheets to face Cleo. "But I don't mean what the spell does. Like-" The girl sighed, her lips twisting, as she appeared to take inventory of something intangible. "The entire movie, Eglantine goes through the trouble of becoming a witch for this _one_ spell. The _final_ one in the Correspondence College of Witchcraft. _All_ this work for this one spell, and why?"

Her enthusiasm, her steam, built gradually in the pace of her speech, "To help _everyone else in her community_. Because it's World War II, and the Nazis are coming, and they're _winning_ and no one knows what to do. And Eglantine seeks power not for _herself_ , but for the sake of helping _others_.

"And when I learned I was a witch, she was the kind I wanted to be." It was the most animated Cleo had seen her, and by the end she was leaning off the mattress, perched on the palms of her hands. "I decided if I was going to have magic, then I might as well use that power for the sake of helping others, instead of myself."

Cleo didn't allow this to hang for long. The glimmer in the girl's eyes suggested she might shatter if Cleo didn't understand, or at least _comprehend_ , the sentiment she was sharing. "That's really beautiful, Violet."

The girl sat back on the mattress. "Yeah, well-"

Her silence ate her up again, now that the conversation had meandered back to the abstract.

Cleo tried to fill in the gap. "So, then… Why aren't you doing your N.E.W.T.s?"

The girl picked at her nail beds. "Because _wanting_ to be a good witch isn't the same as _being_ one."

This, in the very least, was something Cleo had experience with. It felt horrid, but it was nice to be on common ground. "Yeah. Hogwarts is rough, isn't it?"

"No one ever got it," the girl complained, scowling at her hands. "Because people are mostly _excited_ , and you're just _crazy_ if you don't think being there is the most amazing thing in the world."

"Yeah."

"And the teachers are really hard to talk to. I couldn't ever be honest with them. Especially Snape. It's not like he'd get it, you know, that I had _problems_. They didn't know the name for it. And I didn't feel like explaining it, not without sounding mental. Or them even believing me in the first place. So I was just a _lazy student_."

"You weren't," Cleo averred, quite stern. Probably wasn't the best idea to pry too deeply into the details, either. "Whatever you were going through, it wasn't your fault. Hogwarts isn't all that accessible."

"Well," the girl sighed, glancing up to fasten her stare to Cleo's torso. "Seems like you did okay. What with you being a Healer and all."

"Oh, uh-" Cleo's head shook. "I'm- no. I'm not. I'm still a student."

Violet's nose wrinkled. "But you don't look-"

"I had to take a few years off," Cleo cut her off before she was confronted by the same, inevitable sentiment she felt like she'd heard too many times that day. "I got pregnant. So I took time off to have a baby. I came back this year. And even then, I'm still a year off from graduation."

Violet's brow crinkled. "So… Why are you here? "

"Because my advisor got me an apprenticeship position," she explained. "Sort of like work-study."

"Oh."

"So- y'know."

Violet's head appeared to shake off a thought. "Are you…" The girl hesitated. "From where I'm from?"

"Hm?"

"I mean you know what Disney is, and you understand, so I figure-"

" _Oh_ , " Cleo exhaled. "Yeah. Yes, I am."

"So you know what it's like," Violet concluded, before she grimaced. "Unless you were excited, too."

"I wasn't," Cleo assured her. "I was scared and I didn't know what to do."

The girl appeared relieved, which would've been odd, had Cleo not understood the very _essence_ of that comfort.

"I didn't really know how to talk about it," the girl divulged, "before my family and I got involved with this group. Concordia. And I got to talk to other people like me, and other parents, who'd gone through the same stuff."

"I know of them," Cleo said. "My parents are members, actually. It's been really helpful for the two of them."

Violet made eye contact again. And, like before, it was brief, but intense. "You don't go?"

"I didn't know if it was for me," she explained. "It seemed more like a support group for parents, y'know. So they could understand things from my end better."

"Oh, it's more than that," Violet told her, catching that excitement from before. "They teach you so much about your rights and have such _amazing_ advice. Like, did you know that-"

"Miss Croft."

It'd seemed stupid, right about then, that she could've harbored any doubt about Wil Tenenbaum's relation to the professor of the same name, what with the same bone-chilling horror inspired by the very accusation of her voice.

Upon hearing it, she'd risen from her seat, ignoring the harsh cry of her chair as it resisted the push.

The German lilt made it worse, somehow. Like she'd just been condemned to die.

Considering Minder Tenenbaum's scowl, that idea didn't seem far off the mark. Too afraid to answer, Cleo merely stared back at her, wide eyed.

The woman's frown deepened, her eyes making a slight pendulum swoop as she surveyed the scene. Then, the charge: "I wasn't aware that you were scheduled for a break."

"I-" Cleo stammered, swallowing hard. "I wasn't-"

"Oh no?" Minder Tenenbaum cooed, her lips drawing into a severe pucker. "Then I hope you have a suitable explanation."

"I-"

"I seem to remember Miss Ayers being due for her potions."

"She was-"

The woman's arms crossed over her chest; her face pulled itself in mock-confusion. "I fail to understand why she has not taken them?"

Then, the unexpected.

Violet bolted up in her bed with an energy Cleo didn't know she was capable of, explaining the situation with a profusely sincere, "I'd complained, ma'am. I didn't want to take them. Not yet. So she waited until I was ready. That's all."

Not exactly a lie, but she wondered if it was a half-truth they could get away with.

The precise swipes the woman's gaze made as she peered at both their expressions felt akin to being completely stripped down. "Have you forgotten you are a witch, Miss Croft?"

Cleo blinked. "Ma'am?"

"Have you a wand?"

"Yes...?"

"I believe you've been taught _Iaculis_? "

Cleo's frown deepened. "Against her will?"

Minder Tenenbaum's eyes rolled. "It is a painless, non-invasive procedure, Miss Croft," she ridiculed, "not a method of torture."

"But-"

The sharp sound of a snap resonating from the woman's side both frightened and shut her up.

"Need I remind you that Miss Ayers is not your only patient?"

"Yes, ma'am, but she was my last until my shift was over-"

"I rather don't care," the woman averred. "This is not a habit you should cultivate, Miss Croft. I imagine Miss Ayers is a wonderful conversationalist. And you can make use of your free time to explore that during _visiting_ hours, rather than your shift."

Cleo stared at her squarely and nodded.

"I'd like to hear you."

"Understood, ma'am."

" _Gut_ ," the woman softly acknowledged before jerking her head in the direction of the other side of the room. "You're excused."

"Shouldn't I-?"

"I'll take care of it, Miss Croft," Minder Tenenbaum told her as she rounded to the other side of the bed. "Good afternoon."

Cleo hesitated a moment as she looked toward Violet who caught her gaze again, earnest and intense. For a moment, the two of them watched each other before Cleo's shoulders sloped down. She offered the girl a feeble smile.

"If you would, Miss Croft," Minder Tenenbaum dismissed, albeit much gentler than before.

Cleo ducked into a stroll to exit the room. Though, not without hearing one last exchange.

One, chastened and remorseful, "It really was my fault, ma'am."

The other, tender and amused, "I don't doubt it."

••••••••••

The sight of Severus Snape perched on the bright blue seat of a Muggle train was not one Cleo could possibly have prepared herself for. Without those characteristic billowing robes of his, he looked… Well, not _terribly_ different - the man was still covered neck to toe, attired exclusively in black - but the alteration of his silhouette was quite off-putting.

The image grew stranger when he leaned on the little table between them in just the same manner he would his desk at Hogwarts. Her bewildered attention clearly hadn't gone unnoticed, for he prompted: "Have you something to say, Miss Croft?"

Plenty. Where to even start? She hadn't had time to get any answers from Dumbledore when she'd arrived at his office to begin her departure back home. The bemusing detail of Snape attending her sabbatical had been thrown on her last minute without real cause or explanation.

 _Professor Snape will be joining you._ Simple as that, unsettlingly routine. As if he had a good reason to even be there - as if he were _meant_ to be. She wasn't ungrateful, she just didn't see how a boarding school professor was going to be any help whatsoever when it came to tracking down her kid-

"Is Thea really skipping your classes?" her mouth started for her, abrupt.

Snape's eyebrows raised, just as perplexed as she was by the sudden inquiry. "Why do you ask?"

Good question.

It had nothing to do with their present occupation. She had no idea why _that_ , of all things, had been her first concern.

But-

"Because it isn't like her," she answered. "And I'm worried."

"On the contrary, it is very 'like her'," the professor replied, leaning back in his seat again.

Her eyes narrowed. "How is it even _remotely_ \- "

"She has been absent _nine_ times, Miss Croft," Snape cut her off. "That is over a third of class time missed."

 _Nine_ times?

"But- you're her Head of House," she reasoned, leaning forward, the action desperate. "How in the world could she have avoided you for this long?"

His gaze was calculating. "That is _exactly_ what I would like to know," he sneered, voice pitched low. "I have been lenient up until now, but she has not been to class for two weeks. If this matter remains unresolved, she will most certainly fail the end of year exam."

Come to think of it, Cleo hadn't really seen much of Thea in the places she'd usually expect to see her. She thought that, perhaps, she'd been too distracted to notice if she _were_ there, but-

"What about her other classes?"

"Standard attendance. Although she has now begun leaving end of day classes early."

That tracked with what Ren had indicated. "So she's avoiding your class specifically."

"Evidently." He didn't sound pleased. She knew _exactly_ what that would lead to.

"Professor," she broached, her gaze going as pleading as she could make it, "before you do anything, please give me the chance to talk to her. Sort this out."

His eyebrow raised. "I fail to see a reason why this would necessitate your involvement."

Maybe not. And maybe, to a degree, she was overstepping her bounds. Somehow, Tenenbaum's influence could be felt over the expanse of hundreds of miles. Her blood ran cold.

Still, she pressed on. "I'm just asking for the chance to talk to her myself, is all- before she gets punished."

Snape threaded his fingers together, meeting her eyes. His expression blanked.

Moments later, the train drew to a stop as the announcer chimed, tinny and nearly unintelligible, above their heads, "Now approaching: Hassocks Station. Next stop, Preston Park."

A few people shuffled toward the doors and Snape finally addressed her again. "I trust your family is aware of your arrival?"

Cleo didn't need any other indication that their previous conversation was over. She scooted toward the edge of her seat. "I called my dad ahead of time, yeah."

"Called?"

She shook her head. "This mirror thing the Headmaster arranged as a means for me to contact home."

"Ah." Snape surveyed her a moment. "Not a common phrase, for the magically-inclined."

She didn't really understand the point of bringing that up - but it wouldn't do her any good to be annoyed. She hummed, noncommittal, her attention directed toward the bodies shambling past her.

He spoke again. "If you believe your father might be disturbed by my presence…"

Her head snapped back to him. "What? No, he won't be."

Snape raised an eyebrow at her. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but only murmured, "I see."

Well, she wasn't going to let that slip by. "What?"

"I have no further inquiry down that line of thought," he smoothly informed her. "However, I will admit to some interest in your planning."

Leaning back in her seat again, Cleo softly sighed. "My mum had haunts. Places she'd take me repeatedly, in a roulette, whenever she pulled a stunt like this. I figured I'd start there, since that's where she's most likely to be."

"And if she is not?"

"She will be," she emphasized, peering at him.

Snape hummed, dissatisfied. "There is no guarantee that events have proceeded exactly as they have in the past, Miss Croft."

"Are you trying to panic me or something?"

He stared at her, brows drawn low. "I assume you have not thought that far."

"I _have_ ," she asserted, irritated. "If I can't find her, then I have no choice but to make this a police matter. I've purposely not _dwelled_ on that fact."

"Clearly," the man intoned, lightly derisive.

Her eyes closed. " _Please_ don't start."

"If you would rather not involve the authorities," Snape commented as the train began moving again, "then you should consider more than one path for your investigation."

"As flattered as I am by your habit of being over-confident in my abilities," she dryly told him, "I'm by no means a professional investigator. I'm a single mother. So I'm going with what I know."

"I in no way implied that you were gifted in this area," he told her, point-blank. "It is merely wise to leave yourself options when events do not unfold in an orderly fashion."

"Can we skip to the part where you tell me what those options are?" she lobbed back, unflinching. "So we don't sit here for another five minutes pretending as if I'm in any capacity to know what you seem to believe I should have known ahead of time. _Somehow_. "

"It would be remiss of me as a teacher if I simply handed you all the answers," he pointed out, tone bland.

Her voice rang out with a flat "ha, ha" before she frowned. "Don't joke about this."

"It is not a 'joke'," Snape frowned, arms crossing over his chest. "This is a time for careful consideration, not _panic_ , Miss Croft."

"No shit?" she blurted out, loud enough for the couple one seat over to shift uncomfortably in their seats. Cleo glanced down the aisle before swallowing hard, her voice lowering to a harsh whisper. "I'm not panicking. _You're_ trying to make me panic. Then you're dangling this apparently key information about how to find my _kid_ in front of me as if it's some riddle I'm supposed to figure out? We're not at school. That isn't appropriate."

"I asked you to _think_ ; I did not assign an essay or boast an answer," he shot back with a glare. "What insight could I possibly have when I am unfamiliar with your family and hometown?"

Holy fucking _shit_ -

Her hands clenched on the table as she leaned forward. "You just _said_ \- " her whisper strangled itself before it could slither completely out of her mouth. Jaw squared and aching from how tense she held it, she sat back again, pulling her fists into her lap. She hoisted a sharp glare at him before pinning it to the window.

His gaze burned the side of her face for a few moments before he, too, turned his attention away. The leafless trees whipped past her vision in horizontal streaks. Though the scenery was uniform, there was a small comfort to this stretch of the journey; these scattered landmarks were always the last things she would see before returning home for the summer.

Too bad everything was fucked.

It wasn't until the train was approaching the railway station that the professor spoke again. "Is your home within walking distance of the station?"

"No," her answer was clipped. "My dad is likely meeting us."

"Ah."

She'd positioned herself toward the aisle so that when the train came to a rolling stop, she was out of her seat and halfway toward the opening doors before the other passengers had the chance to gather their things. It was difficult to care that she'd left Snape behind.

He managed traversing the rush hour crowd, however, because he was right behind her by the time she'd exited the station and entered the vast, overburdened carpark. She heard a friendly shout from nearby and headed to its source without thinking.

Her father was standing there, in the front row, seated on the bonnet of his vehicle, wide smile plastered to his face. His wave transitioned into a wide, open invitation for an embrace the closer she approached.

She was too angry to accept her father's arms as they drew out toward her, ducking into the front seat as she slammed the door closed. She watched as her father gazed, astonished, into the windshield before his head turned to glance at the professor a few paces away. Snape strolled to him with a greeting muffled by the insulated space in which she sat; whatever he'd said to her father, it evidently granted him entry to the car, since he moved to open the door to the back seat without preamble. Her father allowed a few moments to pass before his shoulders dipped and he entered the driver's side.

Irritatingly, he didn't start the car. She glared out the window, hating the way her father's eyes felt boring holes in the side of her skull. She heard the leather of his seat squeak as he adjusted his position when he must have realized the silence wouldn't cajole her.

So, he was direct. "You okay?"

Her lips planed over her teeth as she grimaced. "Drive."

"Did something happen?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

His fingers made dull thudding noises as he drummed them on the driving wheel. Then, the sound of his sigh filled the air. His keys jangled, chaotic, as they were turned in the ignition. The car roared to life. She was jostled in her seat as he backed out.

She heard the seat groan again as he leaned forward, then his voice drummed out, awkward. "Didn't realize you'd have someone with you."

She leaned toward the window until her shoulder made contact with the door. "Me neither."

"Why is he here?"

"I don't know. Ask _him_."

"My purpose is to see to Miss Croft's health and safety while she is abroad from the school," Snape supplied smoothly.

Her eyes closed as she heard her father rattle out an uncomfortable laugh. "Isn't that my job?"

"The school year is still underway; it is protocol for the school to maintain responsibility for its students unless we are divested of it in writing," the man explained.

 _That_ sure was a funny way of saying that her father basically had no rights as a parent, and felt tempted to say as much. However, when she looked at him, her father was staring at Snape's reflection in the rear view mirror as they hovered at a stop light. She decided against it.

"Seems a bit inconvenient to send staff with every student on temporary leave," he mused as his eyes slipped back to the road. The light turned green and they slid back into movement. His lips flattened into a straight line. "Especially the adult ones."

Snape appeared entirely unfazed by her father's tone. "The situation is highly irregular," he explained, "but it is no inconvenience to me."

Her father's eyes darted to her as if searching for confirmation. Cleo didn't really have any to provide.

"Do you have a place to stay?" The very question twisted at her insides. She hadn't even _thought_ of that. "I wasn't exactly expecting my daughter to have a chaperone-"

"There will be no need to provide any accommodations; I will manage myself."

"You know your way around Brighton?" her father asked, this time much more conversational.

"Not as such," the professor replied without missing a beat. "But I have done my fair share of traveling."

Typical to her father, whatever apprehensions he had washed away in an instant, giving way to his more gregarious nature. All bark and no bite. As always. "Oh yeah? Where to?"

"Several European destinations for work, but in my youth I spent a year in Africa."

Her father sat up in her seat, visibly intrigued. "Oh? Where at? I did a stint with Doctors Without Borders in Sudan when I was still a nurse."

"I was apprenticed to a man from a small fishing village in Egypt," Snape told him, his voice taking on the same tone he used in lectures.

"Apprenticed," her father repeated, his lips pursing in thought. "What in, if I can ask?"

"My master was an herbalist and herpetologist. I was there to assist his research into antidotes for the villagers; they had long been plagued by venomous creatures."

She observed as her father glanced between her and the rear view mirror, pensive. "Like drug trials?" he asked, though his focus was directed at her again.

"Sort of," she uttered, noncommittal.

"So a researcher?"

She shook her head. "More like a pharmacologist."

"And you teach…?" he paused.

"Potions," she filled in.

"And you teach, uh - _potions_ at a school now?"

Snape inclined his head. "As you say."

"What made you switch from your previous career?" her father asked, glancing over his shoulder, his attention on the back window rather than the man occupying the seat behind him, before he made a wide left turn. "Felt a call to teaching?"

"One might say I never left it," Snape clarified. "I still develop made-to-order brews and conduct my own research."

"So like a tenured professor?" Her father offered. Then, his eyes widened in apparent realization. "Oh! _Potions_. You must be- you're the, ah- Snape, right?"

Cleo tossed her head over her seat. "You didn't introduce yourself?"

He leveled her with a stare so bland she couldn't help but feel affronted. "Who I am is of little consequence to our present occupation," he intoned. "You seemed rather in a hurry."

Yeah. Right.

She was.

She faced her father suddenly. "I need to use the car."

"That's fine," he said. "I just figured we were going straight off-"

"You wanted to come?"

He looked at her oddly. "He is my grandson, isn't he?"

Maybe it was a dumb question. But she'd anticipated the comfort of being completely alone for when things got too… difficult.

"I thought maybe it would be a bad idea," she excused, a bit lamely. "Like, if she saw you, and then got rash-"

The way he looked at her stopped her short.

"Nevermind," she muttered. "You're right. I would appreciate the help."

They were steeped in silence for several minutes. Now that she was paying proper attention, she realized her father was driving aimlessly around town. Waiting on her.

The worst part was that he would've kept on like that until she was ready. As if the very center of his universe was oriented to her.

She leaned into the window again, frowning. "There's one near here. East of Preston Park."

His lane change was seamless and, although he seemed to know where he was going, he checked, "The Travelodge?"

"Yeah," she confirmed. "The Travelodge."

A few minutes later, when they steered into the carpark, the taste of bubblegum stung her mouth. She speared her tongue into her cheek, pins and needles buzzing in her teeth. The aroma of diesel turned her stomach. Snape didn't follow them out of the car.

The chime on the lobby door rang too correctly; the bent position she took at the front desk wasn't hers. Her father hung too far back, to give her control that she suddenly realized she couldn't handle.

But it was here.

She could feel it fumbling out of her fingers as they spread out, too familiar, on the linoleum counter. When the front desk girl looked at her, Cleo grinned with a smile prim enough to make her cheeks ache.

It was clear the girl had expected her to speak up first, but was quick to reorient when Cleo's silence was forthcoming. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry," she excused herself. "I was just wondering if you could answer a question?"

Chipper but on edge, the girl slid toward the counter, her gaze making a quick sojourn toward her father, who had taken a position up against the wall. "Oh, uh- yeah, no problem."

Cleo's head bowed as her smile fell to the counter. A nervous laugh filtered through it quickly to diffuse the tension. "I know this- well, just- is there any way you could tell me if you've seen someone here? At the hotel?"

When she looked up, the girl blinked at her, jaw caught slightly slacked. "I mean, I think-"

"Just uhm, I'm- _we're_ looking for my mum and my son? And we weren't sure what hotel she was staying at?"

The girl's head bobbed once. "Well, uhm. If you provided her name, I could confirm whether or not she is checked in currently?"

"It's Holly Croft?" Cleo offered, before her voice wobbled into an uncertain stammer. "It's- It's just that she doesn't always give her real name? She's done that before and I'm not certain of what the alias might be."

The twitch at the corner of the girl's mouth was as much an indication of hesitation that Cleo needed to understand how nervous the situation was for her. It resembled Violet in a way that unsettled Cleo.

"Okay, well, I can't really give out information about guests. I can only confirm if someone is checked in."

A hopelessness guided the sudden slant that took over Cleo's shoulders as she repeated "Holly Croft," resigned.

The girl took a moment to peruse the company Amstrad before her polite smile twitched back up to Cleo again. "I'm sorry, I don't see anyone checked in under that name here."

Cleo rubbed her hands down her face before leaning forward again. "She looks like me. But her hair is short; pixie cut. She was with a two year old. Blue eyes, dirty blonde hair-"

The ponytail at the back of the girl's head swayed violently as she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I _really_ can't-"

A presence manifested beside her, tall and dark, and Cleo half panicked until she felt the familiar weight of her father's arm over her shoulder. She hadn't realized she'd been trembling until he kept her steady. "We're really not meaning to bother. It's just my wife and grandson have been missing for almost a week now and we've exhausted most of our options."

The girl's eyes flitted between his face and hers before they plummeted down to her own hands. "I'm really sorry, but-"

"We just need to know if they've been seen at all," he promised, his voice so ginger it was soothing. She noticed the other girl's posture relaxed. Her lips slithered into a pucker. "If _anyone_ has."

The girl seemed to consider this a moment longer, her head stretching over her shoulder to observe the open office behind her. When she addressed them again, her voice lowered and she leaned toward them. "I haven't. I mean I'm not here for every shift but I haven't seen anyone like that around here." She leaned away again, back to normal volume. "I'm sorry."

She felt, rather than saw, her father smile. "Thank you."

"I could call the police for you, if you like," the girl offered in some last ditch effort to help; her guilt was welded to her face. "It really wouldn't be a problem-"

Her father fielded this with a kind, "No, thank you," as he guided Cleo away from the counter. Her legs didn't feel quite like they were working, so she had no idea how he managed to do it. But her father was resourceful like that, she supposed. "We really appreciate the help."

The last thing she heard over the uneasy chime of the doorbell as they stepped outside was that girl eagerly calling after them, "I'm really sorry! Good luck!"

And at the curb of the carpark, he waited as she stared down at the paint that lined the spaces. Waited as she swallowed the taste of gum. Waited as she breathed diesel. Waited as she tried to ignore the sound of Holly's voice in her head.

She'd lost it.

Already.

And maybe her father was comforted by the fact that he was there to help take the brunt of the blow, but she wasn't.

Especially when the blows kept coming.

Russell Square. Kings Road. Regency Square. Cavendish Place. Middle Street. Ship Street. Grande Parade.

Not a trace.

And she kept growing more and more useless. By the time they'd checked the last hotel, she'd stayed out on the curb, just like she used to, and waited for the news. His frown brought it to her. Again, he helped her in the car. He backed out. He drove, awaiting her next directions.

Except there weren't any.

That was it.

He didn't seem to realize, though. There was that perfect faith again. Like he'd forgotten he'd taken over three stops ago.

Snape had become skilled at filling in the gaps between her silences, which had grown significantly with each failed attempt. Her father apparently appreciated the breaks to answer whatever inane question Snape offered to appear polite and involved.

"You mentioned being employed in the medical profession?" was this round's inquiry.

"Was a nurse for a few years before I went on and became certified as a midwife," her father confirmed.

"Ah. Your daughter follows your footsteps, I see."

"Nah, not mine," her father objected. "She's much more ambitious than me. Did you hear her idea?"

Her eyes closed as she pressed her forehead against the passenger's side window. "Dad."

"Brilliant, it is. You must've thought so too, considering-"

" _Dad_."

His silence questioned her. She glanced back to him. "Stop."

His frown was perplexed. "What? You don't have to be embarrassed-"

"Pull over," she said suddenly, sitting up against her seat.

"What?"

"Pull _over_."

He complied; or tried to, at least. The car fell into a perpetual roll as he struggled to find an empty patch of sidewalk. The evening sun palmed her cheek as the harsh right hand turn signal clucked in her ear. All at once, she knew she needed out.

Now.

Her hand fell to the door handle and pulled. Nothing. Like smashing her head against a brick wall, she tried again, inexplicably hoping for a different result. Nothing. Again. Again. Again. Again-

She knew that it wasn't going to open the more she pulled. Yet somehow, the maddening sense of two men looking over her shoulder, one thinking _Alohamora_ and the other _just flip the carlock_ spurred her to continue manhandling the door in some pitiful show of defiance.

She'd practically swung her whole body into forcing it open when she heard the lock unlatch after her father pressed the driver side button. The door finally obeyed and she careened out of the enclosed space, heading in the first direction her feet took her.

Around the left of the car. Toward the pebbled shore. Toward the dozing sun. Toward the sound of open water. Just _away_.

She needed _away_.

From responsibility, from people, from expectations, from failure, from discourse, from identity, from politics, from-

Her feet didn't know what to make of the transition from solid land to the uneven, sloping ridge of the beachside. They made a valiant effort to keep up with the frenetic desperation of her pace, but faltered on an odd slant of embankment. Her soles collapsed with the rocks. She crumbled, bracing her fall with the palms of her hands.

No grace to it, no theatrics.

Just a sharp pain in both ankles and palms, mocking her clumsiness.

It was embarrassing, in a way. How unremarkable and innocuous it was. She picked herself up again and continued forward, unimpeded by the sound of her name being pelted at her back.

It was getting harder to ignore, however, the louder and more insistent it became. Not an inch of malice or irritation in it, though. Just _care_ and _concern_. Somehow that made things ten times worse.

Eventually, her name caught up to her. Grasped her so tentatively that she wheeled around to face it, wrenching her arm away with a force that toppled her over onto the ground again.

Her father stood above her, wide eyed and uncertain.

She felt something inside her fracture. " _Stop_."

He was halfway bent toward her, arm outstretched when she said it. The word shoved his hand away. His fingers flexed, helpless; his response was just as impotent. "What?"

The water clinging to her jeans felt heavier than was possible as she struggled to her feet. Her father was smart enough not to help. "Just _stop_. "

"I don't understand. Stop what?"

An inexplicable rush swam across her eyes; she was blown back by the force of it, her hands coming up to hold the side of her face as she stepped away from him. "I don't _know!_ " she yelped. "Just- _stop!_ "

His hands came up as well, but in surrender. In complete and total capitulation. "Okay! _Okay_ \- listen, I can't-" His eyes closed and although the sound of the frantic seabreeze drowned out any other noise, she knew he was taking deep breaths from his nose.

When his eyes opened again, it was with purpose. He'd grown solid again. "What's _wrong?_ "

"I'm angry!"

"I get that," he told her. "I can see that."

She wheeled around, hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. Her legs led her to meander in frenetic, frustrated circles. "Then there you go!"

"Cleo- I can't _help_ you if you don't talk to me."

"You can't _help_ me at all," she seethed, leaning against the heavy breeze as it whipped violently past her shoulders. "You _can't_. Okay? _No one_ can. Not when _I'm_ the fucking problem."

His brow furrowed. "Cleo-"

" _Shut up!_ " she demanded, eyes widened as she pointed at him.

Flabbergasted, he stared at her. "What-"

"No," she warned again. " _Stop_."

"Listen-"

"I swear to _God_ , " she seethed. "No! Just - _no!_ I didn't want to hear it in the _car_ , and I don't want to hear it _now_ \- "

"What are you talking about?" he sputtered, taking a step toward her.

"You defending me! Singing my praises!" she exclaimed. "Insisting on telling this _lie_ about me, about how apparently _brilliant_ I am, completely ignoring the fact that the only reason why this conversation is even happening right now is due to how much of a massive _fuck up_ I am. As if I am not the _only_ reason why we even have to look for _my kid_. You know, the one I _abandoned_."

He was ready to object, she could see it in the slant of his mouth. The glimmer of disbelief in his eyes.

"You know why he made me so upset?" she barked, her arm jabbing in the direction of the car. "Because he told me that I wasn't taking this seriously enough. And he was _right_. And it makes me so fucking mad that he's right. I _don't_ know what I'm doing."

"You wouldn't-"

" _Stop!_ " she shrieked. " _Stop_ defending me!"

His defiance propped him up. "Why?"

"Because it's _bullshit!_ " she sneered, rounding on him.

"It's not," he argued. "Not to me."

"How?" The incredulous word seeped from her, carried on the breeze that passed between them. It sounded so distant in her ears. "Do you even know me? Do you even know what you're defending?"

"Yes, Cleo, I _know_ you-"

"Then why are you _never_ able to be honest about me?" she accused. "Where's my sense of responsibility, in any of this? Why do you never hold me accountable? Why am I fucking blameless? I can blunder around with complete disregard for anything or _anyone_ else and yet somehow - _somehow_ \- I come out the other end your blameless, perfect little girl. _How?_ "

His head shook. "You are being _incredibly_ hard on yourself-"

"I'm being _honest!_ " she shouted. "I _hurt_ people, Dad! I alienate them, or I abandon them, or I lie to them, or I fight with them and it's all so fucking _pointless_ and I _never_ change, no matter how much I promise that this is the _last time_ -"

"Cleo-"

"I have one _friend_ at that hellscape of a school. _One_. And you know what? I completely fucked it up. Over _nothing_. Semantics. An argument that wasn't even worth it. Do you know how maddening that is?"

Looking at him, she immediately knew that he did. Of course he did. He _lived_ that. She bared her teeth. "I don't know… _how_ many times I've heard you or Dr. Harding explain how to disengage. I know every warning sign. I know how to spot the very _second_ a conversation has stopped being productive and yet _I don't do anything about it_. I never do. I sit there and seethe and I say things I shouldn't or I completely _lose_ it. I only come back to myself when it's too late. And-"

Even in the midst of the chaos about them, there reigned a honey thick silence, choked up in stale, bitter air.

She swallowed.

"I looked him dead in the eye and basically accused him of calling me a hateful slur when he hadn't. At all. Is that okay?"

" _Cleo_ -"

" _Is that okay!?_ " she snapped, stepping up in front of him.

He watched her a long while, his frown stretching his face taut. Then, with a breath, he answered, unwavering, "No."

"Is skipping out on a class for two weeks because I'm too cowardly to apologize for yelling at a teacher okay?"

"No."

"Is calling a teacher a bitch because of my abysmal distress tolerance okay?"

"No."

"Is abandoning my responsibilities as a parent because I want to achieve some frivolous sense of self fulfillment okay?"

Nothing on that one. His eyes narrowed. So did hers.

"Is that okay?"

His stare was unwavering. "It's a bad question."

She scowled. "What?"

"You're asking me this in bad faith, Cleo. Yes, base value, those things sound horrible. But _context_ matters- "

"Context," she jeered on an exhale, her head throwing itself skyward. "Really. _Context_. There we go. Another way to absolve me of _all_ sense of responsibility-"

"Stop." His hand took purchase of her upper arm. She twisted out of his grip and he didn't try again. "It is not that black and white."

"Sometimes it is," she argued. "What does context do for my argument with Harry? I looked him dead in the eye and I said, 'call me a Mudblood, why don't you?' And all I could think of was _every time_ she did the same thing to you. Every time she stood up and accused you of cheating, of abusing her, called you a liar-"

"Stop it."

She grit her teeth. "Why?"

"Because I know what you're doing."

Her mouth parted slightly, jaw taut. "I'm being honest."

"You're being cruel."

She clapped suddenly; the reverb so violent and abrupt that it made him flinch. "Yes, I am! Glad we can agree on something."

His head shook. "It's _pointless_. Do you even see how unfair you're being? How does this serve you in any way-"

"Why does it have to serve me?"

"Because you have to be your own best friend, honey. You have to be in your corner-"

" _Why_ though?"

"Because you _have_ to love yourself."

Her shoulders rolled back. "What if I'm not worth loving?"

His expression scrunched up. "You can't think that."

"Why not?" she questioned, her voice giving way to a tremble. "Why is it so hard to believe?"

"Honey-"

"If you even acknowledged _half_ the things that were wrong with me," she argued, "it wouldn't be that hard for you to fathom. It just _wouldn't_."

His words flowed, pained, from his wound-like mouth. "I'm not in denial, honey. I don't know what you want-"

"To get pissed at me!" she confessed, breathless. "To tell me that I fucked up and that this is my fault. I don't want to paint this shit over anymore. Act like any of this is okay. That her _being_ like this is okay. That me being like this is-"

"You're not-" He quickly stopped himself, gulping down air. It was only after a moment of collecting himself that he approached again, taking a different tact. "You have struggles. But they're not as grave as you think they are."

"You have no idea."

"Cleo, I _live_ with you," he argued. "I _raised_ you. I'm not as unaware as you seem to think-"

"I'm angry, _right now_ , and if you can't even-"

He beat her to the punch. "I acknowledge it, Cleo. I _see_ it."

Inexplicably, the pain of that sentiment felt more intense than anything else. "It's a _problem_."

His hands reached halfway toward her before he stopped himself, fingers twitching inward. "Cleo…"

"I get _so_ mad." The sentence barely crawled out of her tightening throat. The whine of a creature losing heart. "I get so _mad_ that I don't know who I _am_. I don't _recognize_ myself and I-"

A breath, all chopped up.

"Like I'm _possessed_ -"

Her exhale rushed with the breeze that kicked up her hair into her face.

"Just like _right now._ You were just being _nice_ and I couldn't _take_ it because I don't deserve it. I just hurt people and I don't want to. I don't want to hurt Gabriel but I already have-"

Her tears seared her eyes. Her father's expression crumbled. "Cleo…"

"I _hurt_ him. I _did_ that to him, Dad," she warbled, her breath a harsh, uneven staccato. "For absolutely nothing. Because what? I had a _dream_? _Why_ do I get to have that? What room do I have for that? I don't _want_ it!"

Her hands dug into the fabric of her clothes, wrinkling them between her fingers, like she could wrench it out of her. Her sobs grew more desperate. "Just _take_ it from me! I don't _want_ it anymore! I want to _be_ with him! I want to be _something_ for him! Give it to _someone_ else . I don't want to _hurt_ him anymore!"

His hands rested on her shoulders. Strong and warm. The comfort it brought felt so revolting, but she didn't have the strength to pull away.

"You aren't-"

"I _am_ ," she wailed. "I hurt him. Just like _she_ hurt _me_. I did that to him. I did that to him and I'm starting to realize how- how much-" She swallowed the end of that sentence. It went down sharp. Painful. Her next breath came out labored. "And I- I don't… I don't- want to… I don't want to- be _like_ her-"

Those arms encapsulated her with ease, pulling her against his chest so close and _secure_ that she gave herself the room to completely fall apart.

And somehow, he was able to keep the pieces together. Like he always had.

His words were hot against her hair. "You're living too much at once." She felt the rough of his cheek against her crown, his chest broadening as he took a breath. "We're not in the past, we're not in the future. We're right here, right now. We've only just started looking for Gabe. Alright? And I won't _ever_ let-"

Jarring, the harsh sound of another voice cut right between the two of them.

"Is your son magical?"

Even standing a few feet away, Snape's presence was overpowering. The exact moment of his arrival was impossible for her to pinpoint, but all his prior pleasantness was gone, that normal austerity front and center.

Even through the haze of tears, she couldn't help but falter. Her father even more so, practically rearing up in shock as his voice squeezed out a tense, "Excuse me?"

The professor ignored him, his weighty stare fixed on her. "Is. Your son. Magical?"

A few stray tears fell from her eyes as she shook her head. "I- I don't know?"

"I will need an object which belongs to him. Something he would have spent a great deal of time around."

"Why?" she bleated, swallowing down syrupy, tear-stricken breath.

"If I am not mistaken," he remarked, his voice laced with irony, "this entire excursion is for him, correct?"

Her father straightened. "That tone is entirely unnecessary-"

"The longer we dither here, the more time we waste."

She felt ready to shatter under the weight of that pressure. Her breath stuttered as she stared at him, petrified.

Snape's gaze narrowed, his response sharpened to a point. "Have you not glutted yourself enough on self pity?"

Her father grew incensed. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Snape's dark eyes were locked on her. "Tell me- what exactly have you accomplished with this undignified display?"

She felt her father slip away, even as his arms remained fastened to her body. He practically lurched in Snape's direction. "Hold _on_ -!"

"I don't recall speaking to you," was the professor's cold dismissal.

"Well you bloody well are now," he barked. "I don't know what passes as _acceptable_ where you're from-"

"Acceptable?" Snape echoed, tone mocking. "Do not speak to me of decorum when you are the very _picture_ of impropriety."

"I swear to _God_ ," her father sneered with a glower so baleful it frightened her. "If you say one more thing-"

"Dad," she entreated. All at once, his full attention was directed on her again.

She frowned at him before her eyes cast themselves on the man towering to her right, in that way he often did that made her feel so… small. Insignificant. "What do you want me to say?"

"You've _said_ enough," he scoffed, arms folded over his chest. "It would serve to divert energy from these theatrics to something more _productive_."

"What do you want me to do? " she corrected, barely able to stifle the quiver in her voice.

His demand was immediate. "Answer my question."

She lifted her hand to wipe the dampness from her cheeks. "I don't _know_ if he's magical. How do you know tracking him like that would even _work?_ "

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Entertaining the possibility of success would, at the very least, be a better use of my time than throwing a tantrum on a public beach. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes." Her voice wavered as she sniffed. "I would."

The professor's gaze pivoted between them, precise. "Then; the object?"

Hapless, she floundered, "I- I don't know."

" _Think._ "

She trembled. "It'd have to- I don't know, something from home, maybe, but-"

"Would a car seat work?" her father blurted. She looked at him, surprised to hear him speak up.

Snape turned on his heel, walking back to the car, his muttered "Perhaps," following behind him.

Cleo's movements were sluggish as she unlatched her arms from around her father's torso. The two of them shared a look before following the man back up to street level. When the three of them reached the car, her father made quick work of unlocking the boot. He motioned for Snape to approach once he'd opened it. "Been sitting in here for about a week, but we use it a lot when we take him out."

Without preamble, the professor took hold of both sides of the carseat, murmuring, " _Pertento Solus_."

Nothing outwardly happened, but a moment later Snape's eyes followed the road behind them, saying, "The trail is very faint, but… serviceable."

Stepping up beside him, Cleo glanced in the direction he had. "What are you talking about? There's nothing there. I didn't see anything."

"It is a visualization spell, Miss Croft," he informed her, the words crisp, as if this was something she ought to know already. "You must cast it yourself."

Right. Like in the Forest.

Her head felt about ready to topple over, but the frantic, agitated energy that coursed through her made that easy enough to ignore. "But it's his trail?"

"Unless your parents possess latent, untapped magical power, then yes," was his dry retort.

She let out an eager breath, reaching out to grasp his arm. "And if we follow it, we'll find him?"

He offered her a displeased frown. "Presumably; however-"

"Then we have to go _now_ ," she insisted, her hands dropping his arm in a violent rush to push past him. She was a few feet down the sidewalk before she glanced behind her, arms motioning in the direction she was heading. "You said it was this way, right?"

"Miss Croft," he addressed her, stern and unmoving. "A word before you get ahead of yourself."

Her irritation was full bodied, expressed in the startling lurch of her halt. "What?"

Snape's gaze went from her, to her father, and back. "It is, as you mentioned, still a shot in the dark. Even from where I am standing, the trail is piecemeal. This plan is not foolproof, you understand."

"But we can still put the pieces together," she reasoned, wiping the last remnants of her tears away. "Even if there are patches missing, we can narrow things down, find exactly where he was going."

He looked as if he'd like to argue, but instead he offered a pointed declaration, "This process will go faster if there are two sets of eyes on the trail."

She didn't need further prompting. Fumbling to dig her wand from her coat pocket, she scrambled back to the car, practically stabbing her wand tip into the cushion of Gabriel's car seat before her voice stumbled out of her mouth, clumsy. " _P-Parento_ \- "

She heard, rather than saw, Snape's irked expression. "Pertento."

" _Pertento_ ," she quickly corrected, " _Solus_."

It took a moment. Too many moments. Too many than were comfortable, really. She was about to complain to Snape that it hadn't worked when she noticed the faint light glimmering beside her pinky. So easy to miss.

The fragment shimmered and pulsated, coiled and wriggled, strung together like loose, connected threads; effervescent and flowing, neon-like. It panted beside her knuckles and waited.

She was reacquainted with a feeling.

A quiet, unremarkable moment that she'd thought had been stolen from her. When his fingers curled around the length of her pinky to make up for lost time. An introduction, repackaged. No less meaningful than how they were meant to meet, just belated. He'd waited.

 _Hello, Mum._

She brushed her finger over the light. Felt nothing and everything.

It was Gabriel.

She knew it in her marrow.

She'd imagined herself fearing this moment, too. The inevitable confrontation with the reality of his magic. What it meant. How it would define him. How it would ruin him.

But as she cradled the traces of her son's magic in her palm, the truth settled at the base of her spine. Fanned outward in warm tremors. She'd never imagined herself smiling. She'd predicted the tears, though.

"Cleo?"

Her head swiveled to where her father was standing, bent over the side of the boot. He watched her.

A few stray tears shuffled out of the corners of her eyes and she turned toward the street.

"What do you see?"

Magic littering the ground like patchwork. She pocketed her hand, still clenched in a fist, holding on to that sensation. She was careful to hide her wand in the hem of her jeans before she looked toward the road. Her words tasted tear-stained. "He's right. The trail leads down that way."

Snape was already turned away from them. "Come."

Her father had stopped the car close to the Pier, and they appeared to be headed in that direction, she noticed. The professor walked several strides ahead, so far removed that a casual observer would not know he was a member of their party at all. Her ankle ached from her fall on the beach, but she quickened her stride anyway.

The wind picked up her hair and tossed it to the side, the chilled air on the back of her neck making her shiver. To the left, ocean and clouds, to the right, cars and houses. One of them, further down the road, was hers. The sea smelled of home.

Cleo ran a hand along the minty green guardrails which separated beach from city. They were cold to the touch, but familiar. She'd walked this stretch of road with Gabriel many times. Even now, she felt him beside her; his signature was sprinkled across the wide sidewalk like sea foam, and it continued ahead as far as she could see.

Further along, the trail lifted into the air in a long ghostly line, hovering at chest height, but at the entrance to the Brighton Pier, it disappeared entirely.

The loss of him was palpable, like he'd been torn right from her arms.

"What?" Cleo gasped, turning to Snape, panicked. "Is that it? How is that it?"

A stream of people filed past them, all clad in thick coats. The professor shot her a look. "Patience," was all he said.

Evidently, he meant it, because they stood in one place for several minutes. The man didn't move a single muscle, simply gazing around the environs in a way that put more than a few passersby on edge. She fidgeted, restless.

When he next moved, Cleo was only a step behind. The three of them stepped through the archway onto the boardwalk in silence.

Despite cold weather, it was still very busy. They were surrounded by chatter and ocean breeze; the plod of footsteps on wood was a percussive compliment to the steady waves. As they traversed the length of the pier, passing by shops, food stands, the arcade, restaurants… each step felt heavier than the last. There was no sign of the trail at all.

Still, Snape did not falter in his forward march. Straight on until they reached the very end of the line, the portion of the pier which housed its attractions. It was there, amidst the rumblings and loud musical accompaniment of the rides, that the professor addressed her again.

"Signatures are brightest where they are slow or unmoving."

All at once, she understood what he'd been looking for. Her head shook. "This isn't like her."

He raised a questioning eyebrow at her. Striding up level with them, her father had his hands deep in his pockets, a nervous gesture. "She hated this pier."

Cleo grimaced at a patch of wood railing that was rotten and damp as she added context, "Dad would bring me here when we spent time together. Alone. _Without_ her."

Snape sidestepped a gaggle of excited children with practiced ease, his scowl enough to deter all the rest from getting any closer. "Out of character is not the same as impossible," he commented, eyes planing over their surroundings. "Based on where the trail ends, this is the most obvious destination."

"Even if she did," she conceded, "this is an amusement park. There's nowhere to stay. They had to have gone somewhere else."

"Has your mother ever slept on the street?"

Her father fielded that one rather quickly. "Not since she was a teenager."

Snape's frown indicated the barest of acknowledgement. "If there is no trail to be reclaimed here, then we return to the street to choose a new speculative direction to walk in."

He turned away so fast that she felt the impression of robes billowing where there weren't any. Her father dawdled a second, uncertain, before following suit.

But Cleo remained fastened in place, watching the flow of humans. The drone of their voices broke against her ear. The sunset was ebbing, just above the carousel, floating amongst whitecap clouds.

Something wasn't right.

"Dad?"

She didn't hear him stop, but she knew he must have. "Yeah?"

"You still have your car."

The scrape of his footsteps approached her, bewildered.

It seemed like such a stupid thing to realize; even worse that she was just _now_ noticing. "You still _have_ your car," she repeated, her head turning to her left, where he stood looking down at her.

"I do."

"She didn't take it this time."

His frown deepened. "She didn't."

She could have kicked herself. She should have asked this earlier. "What happened? When she left?"

"She had Gabe in her arms," he recounted, his eyes searching her expression for something she couldn't place. "So I couldn't take him. Not without hurting or panicking him worse. She packed her things. We were still arguing. Then she went outside, still screaming. Saying that if I got near her, she'd call the police, like usual-"

That wasn't what she was looking for. She waved a hand as she shook her head. "I don't mean usual. Was there anything _different?_ "

"Well, she didn't take the car."

"We established that. Anything else?"

"I- Well, I'm not sure-"

"Did she take anything she doesn't normally take? Did she say anything she normally wouldn't? Was there anything she _did_ that-"

His eyes widened, his words cutting through her line of questioning, frothy. "She made a phone call."

"She called someone?"

"I don't know," he answered. "I wasn't even paying attention. Gabriel was crying and everything was chaotic, so-"

"So someone could have picked her up," Cleo posited, rapidly swiveling in the direction of the professor, her next statement for him, panicked, "She could have been with someone."

He was several paces away, staring at something she couldn't see, but evidently still keyed in to their conversation. "It is certainly plausible," he agreed, his gaze belatedly shifting her way. "But it would seem we have confirmation that they came this way."

She frowned at him, nonplussed. "What do you mean?"

He didn't answer, pointedly directing her attention to where he'd been staring. Initially, it was obscured by bright blonde hair, a blue-checkered dress, a queue overflowing with guests. Then, a little girl, guided by the hand, shifted forward to reveal a trace of Gabriel floating there, pure white and glowing.

The girl crossed again in the opposite direction, clutching a bundle of candyfloss in both hands, but her gaze didn't waver. Gabriel's magical signature was easy to see, hovering in front of the sweets kiosk before it turned a corner. Cleo followed without thinking. It weaved ahead of her in irregular curls and she lagged behind, the throng of people jostling her.

The lead concluded almost as soon as it began, brightening considerably at the edge of another queue before tapering off into nothing. Another dead end.

" _Seriously?_ " she yelped, exasperated, disturbing a couple who were passing to her left. She turned away from their eyes. "God _damn_ it-!"

Snape stepped up to her side, casting her a displeased look, but did not reprimand her. A small mercy; she felt fit to burst with how inconsistent the stupid trail was.

Her father strolled up behind them, the only signal of his approach being the hand he rested on her shoulder. "Hey," he murmured, a clear attempt to soothe. "Just take a breath, sweetheart-"

Why did people always suggest that? As if it wasn't the most _annoying_ thing to hear while on edge?

But apparently it was only one useless suggestion among many in her father's vain attempt to feel helpful. The tentative touch became much stronger once he'd squeezed her shoulder. "Hey, how long has it been since you've eaten?"

She scowled at him. "Food is literally the furthest thing from my mind right now."

"Starving yourself won't help you much," he told her.

"I'm not hungry."

His smile was good humored. "No?"

Snape glared, though the expression was directed at her father this time. "We are in the _middle_ of an investigation, in case that escaped your notice-"

"We're at a dead end," her father reminded him, impassive. "And detectives need breaks, too."

"Do they," the professor intoned.

In a second, a smile broke across her father's face as he looked back down at Cleo. "Well _I'm_ hungry," he announced, before squeezing her shoulder again. "I'll get you something. You don't _have_ to eat it, but it'll be there-"

Why was it that the first parental instinct was to comfort through feeding?

Nevermind.

Stupid question.

Cleo sighed and her father took that as signal enough. Side stepping into the crowd, Cleo watched as her father meandered a length of the boardwalk to a nearby chippy, planting himself at the end of the queue, his balmy smile greeting the people in front of him.

Snape grimaced, crossing his arms. "This is a pointless distraction."

Despite the fact that she'd been irritated with her father moments ago, Snape's criticism had her on the defensive. "He's just trying to help."

He gave her a sideways glance. "By derailing what little progress has been made?"

"It's not _his_ fault the trail died," she pointed out as she turned to face him fully. "There's not a lot he can do right now. My dad's not used to that. Normally _he's_ the hero. He's the one stepping in to protect me. He doesn't like feeling useless."

His primary reaction was to deepen his frown. "That is hardly an excuse."

"He's just being a dad," she excused. "Wasn't yours like that?"

For a moment, Snape just stared at her, his vexed expression frozen in place. Then, saying nothing, he walked away, bisecting the queue her father was standing in to perch on the other side entirely. Up against the rail, watching and waiting. All business, even still.

It was well enough, she supposed. She'd given up on being bothered.

Standing here, though, waiting for a miracle that was never coming wasn't going to take the edge off, either. She carried her anxiety to her father and dumped it beside him.

He didn't seem to want to comment on that, though. "I see why you admire him so much."

He appeared much too self-satisfied while saying that. Cleo frowned at him.

His shrug was the epitome of nonchalance as he stepped forward in the queue. "He's very blunt."

Her arms crossed as she glanced down at her shoes. "I mean, yeah."

"You respond well to that."

"I guess."

"God," he exhaled, his head hoisting itself toward the darkening sky. His laugh came out more like a breath, heaving out of him with an effort that tired him. "I sure dropped the ball on this one, huh?"

The sudden onset of guilt folded her expression over. Damn it. "No, Dad-"

"See, now you know where you get it from," he pointed out, reaching an arm around her shoulders to pull her up against his side. "You like to protect my feelings too."

Her stare grew more insistent. "Dad."

"I'm glad you have someone like that, really," he admitted, squeezing her again. "I've never seen you calm down so fast."

Cleo rested her temple against his shoulder. "You're not bad at this."

"No, but I'm not good either," he confessed, another laugh slipping between the two of them. He guided their bodies further up the line, before he planted a kiss on her crown.

"Think I should skip out on the Scotch Egg?" he joked.

She didn't feel much in the mood to smile. But his attempt, at the very least, was heartening. "I'm not getting in the car with you if you don't."

"Fair enough," he chuckled. "You sure you aren't hungry? Haddock sounds like it'd hit the spot."

"Maybe," she muttered, non-committal. "I think I'd puke up anything I tried to get down."

"Well, if that's the case," her father began, rising up as his chest puffed out, "then I'll just have to hold your hair back as you give it the good ol' heave-ho-"

Despite herself, she grinned, her fist punching into his side. " _Dad_ -"

Her objection was cut off by the way he pulled her up closer to the counter, his arm still fully draped over her shoulder. The woman opposite them was stocky and attired in a stained apron and thick cardigan. Her smile was painted on.

Her father beamed, affable as ever. "Good evening. Hope you're doing well."

"Doin' alright, thank you," the woman replied, automatic. The careful, searching look she'd placed between the two of them was expectant.

"Great. I was wanting the Haddock and Wedges-"

Cleo's gaze veered toward the the decor, not that there was much of it. There was a fishing net draped in front of the counter, sporting holes from human (or child) interference, with wooden aquatic creatures holding it in place. The counter itself was cluttered with the register, utensils and condiments, a tip jar which was labeled "Fishing for Compliments!", and a few takeaway menus. The wall behind was littered with nautical detritus as well, with several fish-shaped plaques boasting the freshness of their food.

With how humdrum everything was, she shouldn't have noticed it. It hung beside an innocuously framed Our First Pound, tucked away in a corner of the kitchen. Their business license. Signed and sealed.

Her focus locked onto the row of four that underlined the official's signature.

She recognized one of them.

And that was the problem.

She _shouldn't_ have.

"Honey?"

Her stare snapped back to her father.

"You sure you don't want anything?"

Taking a step back from the counter, she sought Snape's figure in the crowd. "Uh-"

She could hear the confusion in her father's voice. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," she murmured. "Just, cod and chips, maybe- I'll be right back-"

Snape had moved across the pier again, meandering the perimeter of where the last trail had died. His concentration etched hard lines into his face, eyes peeled to the details of the scene. Her approach was not nearly as careful.

Cleo took his arm again and pulled him toward the chippy. "You have to see this."

Quick enough to be automatic, he jerked out of her grasp, glaring.

Her voice came out in a harsh whisper, urging him. "That kiosk is connected to the Floo Network."

His glare didn't falter, but he did somewhat relent. "How do you know?"

"Their business license," she muttered, stepping closer to him, "it has the St. Mungo's seal on it. Wand and bone. I'd know it anywhere. Pye told me that seal is used to mark when a nearby Floo is connected to the hospital's emergency network."

"Hm. That would explain the large amount of foot traffic in the area."

Her expression was dubious. "What are you talking about? This is a popular boardwalk. Of course a lot of people come here."

Snape inclined his head toward the crowd with a murmured reply. "I expanded the tracking spell to visualize all signatures in the area. It would seem the _magical_ population is just as numerous."

Wait.

"So are you saying this boardwalk is a hub for-"

Her father's hand appeared right over her shoulder, proffering a greasy wad of newspaper. His greeting wafted over the scent of fried cod. "Here, honey."

He'd already, somehow, eaten half of his haddock, the chippy's receipt still hanging between his pinky and ring finger, fluttering helplessly in the passing seabreeze.

She ignored it completely, staring off into the middle distance between Snape's arm and a nearby photo booth, out into the last flecks of sunlight scattering and dying on the surface of the ocean.

"Cleo?" she heard her father prompt. "You alright?"

The street lamps nearby were beginning to light, one by one. As one passed overhead, her attention jerked to Snape. "This wasn't an accident."

He caught on quickly. "Nor was it a visit."

Her expression grew more earnest as she nodded, stepping closer to him. "The seal, the Floo Network, his trail ending here, her deciding to _be_ here, the one place she _wouldn't_ be-

Her father had approached them both, hunched slightly over with two handfuls of take-away, lowering his voice to join them. "What's going on?"

"Dad!" Cleo barked as she turned to him, hands latching desperately to his shoulders. "I need you to tell me _every_ magical person Mum knows!"


	13. Awry

Happy Halloween! As promised on our Tumblr, chapter 13 finished before the end of the month finishes! This one was a little harder to write due to work and school constraints, but it's finally here! We hope you enjoy!

For chapter images and faster updates, check us out on AO3!

Coming Soon - Chapter 14: Trauma

••••••••••

Harry shook his arm out of Ron's grip. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"You'll see."

They circled around the fireplace, abuzz with Gryffindors meeting up to head to breakfast and late-night studiers who had the haggard look of having slept on the rug. Harry felt rather conspicuous, walking out through the common room during the morning rush; there were loads of people he'd rather not run into. Like…

" _Hermione!_ " he hissed at Ron, pointing her out with a jerk of his head. She was speaking intently with Ginny, but any moment she could-

"Don't worry about it," his friend returned, casual, as he slid out the portrait hole.

Harry didn't share Ron's attitude. Things were awkward between them, _sure,_ but neither did it sit right with him, leaving her behind.

They were in the Entrance Hall, veering toward the greenhouses, when Ron spoke next. "The perfect time to slip away is when everyone can see you, but they're too busy to take real notice," he commented, pausing as a group of Hufflepuffs passed. "Makes it seem like you're following the crowd, when you aren't."

Harry snorted as they emerged onto the grounds. "Let me guess, the twins taught you that?"

"Bill, actually," Ron said. "Fred and George aren't that subtle."

After the spectacle they'd put on last year? Harry couldn't disagree with that. "Isn't Bill a lot older than you, though?"

"Yeah. He was starting Hogwarts while I was in my nappies," he mentioned. "But he's still my brother. You learn all sorts of things in a family big as ours."

"I wouldn't know."

His friend's glance was conspicuous. "You're in our family too, you know. Mum fretted for a solid month about adding you to our house clock, but Dad told her it wouldn't be appropriate."

"What?" Harry frowned. "Why?"

"Well I mean-" Ron grimaced. "Be a bit weird for her to _spy_ on you like that."

"Isn't that what she does with you?"

" _Yeah,_ but it's bloody inconvenient, her knowing exactly what you're up to. I've gotten loads of 'concerned letters' straight out of the blue because of it!"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I take it you've got a few of those since you started skipping class?"

"No, thank Merlin," Ron groaned. "If we stay on school grounds, it'll just point to 'school'."

"Well, that's something."

The redhead grunted, strolling further down the hillside steps. Their destination was plain once they'd passed by the greenhouses and the Whomping Willow. Harry turned a confused look toward his friend.

"Doesn't Hagrid have a class?"

Ron smiled. "Yep. But that's the beauty of it, see? Told him I've got a free period, so he says he doesn't mind me coming 'round to study. Says Fang likes the company."

Harry's lips twisted. "What, so you lied?"

"I mean, on Monday and Wednesday mornings, it's not a lie," the boy breezily replied.

"Yeah, since you dropped Herbology," Harry pointed out, tone dry.

"So?" Ron groused. "You're the one who wanted to come here."

Couldn't argue with that. "Is this where you go off to every time you disappear?"

"Not _every_ time," Ron clarified. "But it's a good spot. Nobody comes looking for you out here."

Harry wasn't sure if that was anything to celebrate, but said nothing as the redhead produced a large brass key and turned it in the lock of Hagrid's door.

The inside of the little hut was hot and humid, a direct contrast to the onset of winter outside. And too, it was filled to the brim with tropical plants of all shapes and sizes, including a palm tree that was alarmingly curved into an L-shape; Harry assumed it was to prevent the thing from poking a hole in the roof, but it looked strained enough to snap at any moment.

"What's all this?" he questioned as Ron dumped the contents of his bag on the table.

He gestured vaguely toward Hagrid's bedside; Harry immediately regretted looking. Inside a cage that looked barely able to hold itself up was an enormous beetle, it's height reaching up to roughly hip-level. Its pincered mouth clicked, menacing.

"Bloody _hell._ "

Ron snorted. "Yeah, that's what I said when I first saw it."

"What is it with magic that it likes to make things _gigantic?_ "

"Who knows," was his friend's deadpan reply. "But apparently the thing doesn't eat, so somehow that makes it alright to keep that _abomination_ about."

Harry sank gingerly into a seat beside Ron, as if the slightest disturbance might enrage the creature. He wasn't terribly afraid of insects - even enormous ones - but neither was he keen on sharing living space with one.

He glanced at Ron, surprised to see him with an open-faced textbook. Eyebrows raised, he blurted, "What? Are you _actually_ studying?"

" _No,_ " his friend denied, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. "Well- sort of. But not exactly for… class."

Harry couldn't fathom what other occasion could provoke Ron to study. He glanced at the page, trying to read it upside down; it didn't seem to be in a language he could decipher, though. "What's it for, then?"

Ron's lips twisted. "Nevermind what it's for. Aren't you here to do something? Or did you just want to cut class for kicks?"

"I _wanted_ to talk to you," said Harry, voice a touch sour.

His friend made a show of shutting the book, clasping his hands on top. "Alright. Talk."

Ron's sudden attention caused Harry to scramble to collect his thoughts. "Well…"

"If you came here to lecture me, you might as well save your breath."

"What?" Harry squinted at the boy. "Er- What are you even talking about?"

Ron frowned. "School, Hermione, the _future_. Take your pick. But, mind, I've not said a word about your new _Slytherin_ mates, so unless you'd like to chat about _that-_ "

"I don't have any Slytherin mates!" Harry protested, though Cleo came to his mind almost immediately after he said it. "And I wasn't going to mention any of that. But if _you're_ going to bring it up-"

"Fine, fine," Ron sighed, dismissing that line of thought with a wave of his hand. "What is it, then?"

"I just… I don't know." Harry slouched in his chair. "Just wanted to ask how you were. I feel like I barely see you anymore."

His friend's gaze dropped to the table before returning to Harry's face. "Yeah. Me too."

"I didn't think sixth year would be this busy," he admitted.

Ron smirked. "Says the bloke who asked Dumbledore to give him _more_ to do."

"Well, that's over with now anyway," Harry murmured, staring at the healed-over scabs on his knuckles. "So that, ah… frees up my schedule for endless _detentions._ "

"Yeah, I heard about Quidditch, too. Sorry, mate."

Harry glanced up through his fringe at Ron. "You're not angry?"

"That you gave Malfoy a good wallop? No."

"I meant the points… And, y'know, basically sabotaging the Quidditch team since they don't have time to train up another Seeker-" He frowned.

Ron waved a hand. "They'll manage."

"How's that?" Harry inquired, his tone a little gloomy. "You going back on the team?"

His friend made a face. " _No._ "

Harry cast him a worried look. "It's just a question. I thought you liked Quidditch."

"Sorry." Ron stretched his arms, grimacing. "Mum's been harping on it. I think it's her way of 'compromising' since her real disappointment is that I quit being a Prefect."

Harry folded his arms on the tabletop. "Why did you, then?"

His friend threw his head back. "It was bloody miserable, Harry. Helping out the younger years was great, but after that it was notices and rules and budgets and reports and the disciplinary calendar- _ugh._ "

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Disciplinary calendar?"

"Yeah! Get this- _Prefects_ have to schedule detentions! And we've got to hold meetings with McGonagall about misconduct, dispute punishments when students place a formal objection, 'distribute enforcement responsibilities' during staff meetings-"

"You can _object_ to detentions?" Harry questioned, aghast. "Wish _I'd_ known that sooner-!"

Ron's smile was thin. "Not really. It's just a clause in the charter that prevents students from being strung up by allowing them to appeal to higher authorities. It's all ridiculous, honestly- instead of making a rule that you can't _torture children_ , they made a rule that lets the Head of House overrule the punishment."

Harry couldn't help but remember his awful experience with Umbridge, but he swallowed the memory, quipping instead, "Aren't _all_ detentions torture?"

His friend flashed a proper grin. "No argument here, mate."

"One thing I'm wondering though- I thought teachers scheduled their own detentions?"

"I mean, micromanaging gits like Snape do," Ron mentioned with a disdainful huff. "But if they don't have time, it's our job. Well- _was._ Not anymore for me, thank Merlin."

Harry frowned. "It can't have been all bad."

The redhead shrugged. "Maybe. But- seemed like a waste of time all the same."

His eyes drifted to the book beneath Ron's arms. "What isn't a waste of time for you, these days?"

"Survival," his friend promptly replied, expression bland. "Trouncing little vermin like Malfoy. So, you know- _you_ seem well on your way."

Harry let out an uncomfortable chuckle. "Right, but- You know, it wasn't _just_ a fight," he clarified. "Everything went a bit mental, and I could have killed him-"

"Serve him right if you did," Ron spat, unflinching.

"Ron, that's not really-"

"I'm not saying you _should_ have," he stressed, leaning back in his seat. "But it's not like anyone would miss him. Nobody that matters, anyway. Just another Death Eater gone; who cares?"

" _I_ care!" Harry insisted. "I'm not going to _murder_ someone just because they're an arsehole, Ron. And besides, we don't even know that Malfoy really is-"

"Merlin, you sound like Hermione," Ron grumbled. "His father nearly killed us all not half a year ago! And you're really going to say he's not cut from the same cloth as dear old Daddy?"

He couldn't help but think of what Cleo had said about Malfoy. "I don't know. Probably he is. But even so, I can't kill someone who hasn't _done_ anything."

"What, so you'll just wait around until he does? What if he ends up _really_ hurting someone? He's done plenty of harm already, so where's the bloody line?" His friend looked well and truly angry. "If he's got the Mark on his arm, I wouldn't bother waiting."

"He doesn't," Harry said hastily. It wasn't _quite_ true - Malfoy didn't _need_ a Mark to be a Death Eater - but Ron didn't need to know that. "Cleo said all the Slytherins were checked at the beginning of the year."

Ron blew a heated breath out his nose. "Point is, there's no use hesitating with people who support Death Eaters, Harry. So I'm sure whatever you gave Malfoy, he deserved it."

Harry was surprised to realize that he couldn't share Ron's sentiment; hadn't he just told Cleo he suspected dark magic was involved in the fight? But… Even if that was true, if Malfoy really had "taken the next step", as she'd put it, the prospect of killing his own classmate made him feel physically ill.

"You know," Ron addressed him after a time. "I won't pry, but I will ask- You've not been yourself, even before this business with Malfoy. Did something happen? Y'know- while you were _gone?_ You never did tell us how it went."

Harry frowned, casting his gaze toward the caged beetle. "How can I, when you and Hermione are still at each other's throats?" he deflected.

It worked; Ron's face turned very red. "I thought you weren't going to talk about that."

"I just want you both to make up," Harry sighed, already regretting bringing it up. "That's all."

"That's all, is it?" The redhead folded his arms. " _She's_ the one who called me a useless lout who doesn't care about anything!"

"And _you've_ been mocking her club."

"I'm only stating facts," Ron insisted. "She shouldn't be wasting time on a stupid club when there's a _war_ going on."

"It's a club for Muggleborns!" Harry pointed out, heated. "So it's a bit daft that you're being so- so _mocking_ about it, Ron."

His friend frowned, eyes fixed to the tabletop. "Yeah- I know," he conceded, though his tone was uncertain. "But, Parvati said…"

"What does Parvati know?" Harry said, nose wrinkling. " _You're_ her best friend! You ought to be helping her instead of sneering at her."

"I _am_ helping," Ron dug his feet in, his jaw taut. "The sooner she gives up this childish-"

"What's childish about fighting back against bullies?" Harry interrupted. "You just finished telling me how shite Malfoy is, and here you are acting like him!"

"Don't compare me to that _weasel-_!"

"Then don't encourage the resemblance!"

"I'm tired of you acting like you're so bloody _pure!_ " Ron spat, incensed.

Harry sighed, unclenching his fingers in an effort to calm himself. "I didn't come here to fight with you."

"Yeah? Well good show, Harry. I'm feeling really _at peace,_ " was his friend's bitter retort. "Way to start a row and then pretend it's not what you wanted, like the little angel you are!"

"That's not what I-!"

"Oh, shut it," Ron ordered him. "I've reached my limit. Talk about something else or find another place to skive off."

A tense silence followed after that, and Harry sighed, staring at Fang, who was half asleep atop Hagrid's bed. One of the dog's eyes was open just a crack, watching them both.

Harry sighed a second time, that one much more wistful, and turned back toward his friend. "I don't think I'm better than you, you know."

The redhead scowled. "Could have fooled me."

"Hermione is angry with me too," he countered. "Won't even talk to me after… what happened."

"What did you expect?" Ron replied, caustic. "She's always had a stick up her arse."

"Ron, seriously! Insulting her isn't going to help!"

In a second, his entire demeanor changed. Rather than angry, he just looked exhausted. "I _know,_ " the boy groused, brows drawn low over his eyes as he propped his head up with a tired hand. "I only- I thought, of all people, _she_ would understand…"

Harry blinked. "Understand what?"

Ron's mouth compressed into a thin line. "Nothing."

A disbelieving chuckle forced its way out of him. "What? You can't just get away with not telling me-"

"Don't ask." Harry let the fledgling humor fall from his face when he heard how deadly serious Ron was.

"What's wrong?" he ventured, frowning.

"Nothing's wrong, Harry," his friend sighed. "Well. There _is,_ but there's nothing you can do about it."

"I can judge that for myself," he argued, cautious. "Come on, we're _best friends,_ Ron- won't you at least let me try?"

He could tell the other boy had already made up his mind long before Harry had finished his sentence. "You can't fix this, mate. And knowing you? You'd really, really want to," he mentioned, looking apologetic. "So best friend or no, I think I'll keep it to myself."

Harry deflated in his chair, upset but trying not to let it show on his face. Ron may have said that he wasn't angry - and maybe he wasn't - but this just went to show that he didn't really _trust_ Harry, either. The thought curdled in his mind, his mood plummeting by the second. He'd thought getting away from classes would be a respite, but now? He just felt worse.

He let loose an explosive sigh at the exact moment that Fang lifted his massive head to bark at the entrance to the hut. A second later, the door creaked open to reveal Hagrid, a burlap sack tucked under one arm and an array of saddles and harnesses weighing down the other.

"Alrigh' Ron?" the man called out as he marched through the door, depositing his haul atop his kitchen counter. Several of the harnesses slid off and onto the floor, but Hagrid did not pay them any mind.

The next moment, his eyes settled more fully onto the scene and his eyebrows raised. "Oh! Harry! Good ter see yeh!"

"Good to see you too, Hagrid," he said as the man gave him a hearty pat on the back. "How are your classes going?"

"Well enough, well enough," was his answer, "Say, haven' yeh got a class now, Harry?"

He had a ready excuse that he'd prepared with Ron a day ago, but now that he was in the moment, it felt wrong to use it on someone like Hagrid. After a second's hesitation, Harry admitted, "I, um… yes."

The man's bushy brows drew low over his eyes. "You alrigh', Harry?" he asked. "No' like yeh to sit out yer lessons."

The quiet observation cut him to the quick- Hagrid, whom he'd barely seen since school had begun, had pierced through to the heart of the matter in seconds. It really _wasn't_ like him at all, was it? For years, he'd even attended classes he despised simply because… He _loved_ magic. Always had. And _now…_

He probably shouldn't have skipped Herbology again, even if it made it easier to evade Hermione's Potions-related demands.

Still, he wasn't sure what to say. "I'm, er…"

"He's helping me, actually," Ron inserted himself, alarmingly practiced. "With a project."

"Oh, yeah? The one yeh've been workin' on?"

"... Yes." The word left Harry slowly, curtailed by a frown.

"Really?" Hagrid turned a surprised smile at Harry. "I didn' know yeh were interested in wardin' too."

Harry's gaze flicked to Ron, who looked very uncomfortable as he commented, "Well, you know. We're full of surprises, aren't we?"

" _Yes,_ " Harry corroborated, casting a significant glance at his friend. "In fact, Ron was preparing to tell me all _about_ this project of his."

The redhead grimaced, turning away from their expectant gazes.

Harry's tone shifted away from amusement and more towards confusion. "What? Are you seriously that shy about it?"

" _No,_ " was his hurried reply, so sullen that it instantly rang false.

Harry sat up in his chair. "I'm not going to tease you," he vowed.

Hagrid clapped Ron on the shoulder, nearly toppling him over. "Aye, yeh've got nothing ter be ashamed of."

Ron didn't seem to agree, if his expression was anything to go by, but he spoke anyway. "It's still in the planning stage, but I'm- alright, just _don't_ laugh-"

He bent down to pull something from his bag, placing the object carefully on Hagrid's dining table. It was… a flower. Clipped at one end and a shade of brilliant blue, it seemed both entirely ordinary and entirely unexpected. Harry, more perplexed than ever, stared at his friend.

"Did you start… gardening?"

" _No,_ " Ron snapped, though it lacked much bite. "It's… a ward."

He raised both eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yeah." The redhead fidgeted, scratching behind his ear.

"Since when are you interested in wards?"

"We've been learning about them in class," Ron pointed out, frowning.

"Yeah, but- You never said anything!"

The other boy shrugged. "Was I supposed to?"

Harry wasn't sure why he was so ruffled by that answer, but he was. "Why are you being so secretive?"

"It's not a _secret_ ; I just wanted to work on it myself, that's all," Ron countered.

"That's rubbish when you obviously didn't want to talk about-!"

"Boys, boys!" Hagrid interjected with a light tone. "Harry, Ron's asked for yer help, hasn' he? Let's keep a mite more civil- seein' as we're all friends."

The large man's kindly gaze took all the wind from Harry's sails. "Okay, okay…"

"Right," Ron concurred.

"Now, who's fer tea?" Hagrid prompted, rubbing his hands together as he moved to his small kitchen.

"Hagrid?" Harry inquired. "Haven't you got a class?"

"'Fraid it's been cancelled," the man lamented, rummaging through a cupboard. "On accoun' of the weather."

Ron snorted. "The weather? It's not even that cold!"

"Be needing _more_ cold, not less," Hagrid told them, returning to their table with two mismatched mugs filled with steaming tea. "Otherwise, the Barbegazi won' come outta their pens."

Harry watched his friend's jaw drop. "You've got _snow gnomes?!_ "

"Aye. Thought the third years might like 'em," Hagrid mentioned. "But- after tha' bit o' snowfall there's not been a drop since."

"Sorry to hear that, Hagrid," Harry said.

"Tha's just how life goes," the man remarked, "Can't predict it, eh?"

He lowered himself into his armchair with a satisfied sigh, his own mug cradled beneath his chin. Fang leapt from the bed to curl up at Hagrid's feet with a baritone huff, and Harry anchored his stare to the hound's steady breaths. The both of them were the picture of relaxation, but, inexplicably, Harry felt quite anxious watching them.

Looking away, his gaze meandered to the giant beetle, the tidy kitchen, the overhanging palm fronds, the gnarled throw rug covered in dog fur, and finally back to Ron, who was picking at his nails. The other boy looked up instantly. "What?"

"Nothing."

" _What?_ "

Harry's brows twitched in confusion and annoyance. "I'm just _looking_ at you. Am I not allowed now?"

Ron snorted. "Out with it. I know you want to say something; so come on, then."

He was about to argue on principle, but… Harry scowled. He _did_ actually have something to say.

His gaze dropped to the flower. "I don't understand what this 'project' of yours is."

Ron looked suspicious of that answer, so his own reply was cautious. "This here is an experiment… not the full project."

"Okay, then what's this 'experiment'?"

The redhead frowned. "It's a secret."

Was he really going to revive their argument like this? Harry clenched his jaw. "Right, then I guess I _can't_ ask, even though you _said-_ "

"Not for _you,_ for everyone else," Ron clarified with a glare. "The more people know about it, the less it will work."

That stopped him in his tracks. He was more curious than ever. "Okay…?"

"Tenenbaum put me up to it," his friend mentioned, turning the stem of the flower in his hands. Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes.

Ron picked up on it. "What?"

"Nothing," Harry dismissed, frowning. "She's been giving me hell, is all."

The redhead snorted. "Who, Tenenbaum? Isn't she like that with everyone?"

"Ever since I said I wouldn't start up the DA again, she's become an absolute _monster_ to me," Harry complained.

Ron barked a laugh. "Serves you right."

"Oh, _shut it._ "

"Well, you _should_ do it again."

"And _you_ should bugger off."

Ron clutched his heart, feigning a wound.

Harry grimaced. "You were saying? About the ward?"

The other boy raised his eyebrows, dropping the charade. "Yeah. It's, uh… Just don't let the professor know I told you, okay?"

There was a pause where they just stared at each other, Ron's gaze as searching as Harry's was bland.

At length, Ron sighed. "Right. 'Course you won't."

"So…?"

"Well," his friend began, "it's like this: I'm actually kind of good at warding? That one day when Tenenbaum asked me to stay after class, she gave me this special assignment. Said I've an 'eye for strategy', and she'll count it as part of my half-term grade."

"She asked you to do extra work, and you _agreed?_ " Harry questioned, sardonic.

"It sounded interesting!" Ron defended himself, throwing up his hands in a dramatic shrug. "She asked me to work on a portable ward, since wearable magic has different complications than a standard, sitting-in-one-place-for-centuries ward."

"And that's it?" He gestured to the flower.

"That's it," the redhead confirmed. "Weeks of effort, and I've only just started to 'engage spellwork', as the book says."

"Book?"

He uncovered the text he'd been leaning on top of, turning it so Harry could see. "This here," Ron said. "Tenenbaum said this thing's 'saved her arse in the field many times over' - her words - but still. _Inconvenient,_ is what I'd call it."

Harry contemplated the cover. "Are those… ancient runes?"

"Yeah, the whole thing's written in 'Elder Futhark', whatever that is," his friend complained with a sigh. "Dry as Merlin's bloody _bones,_ but it's got a useful list of proper foundation objects and warding trees."

Harry lifted his eyes to peer at his friend. "I've no idea what you're talking about; you know that, right?"

Ron's smile was sheepish. "Warding trees are like… plans on how to make certain wards. What rune phrasing to use, which conditions to connect- that sort of thing."

"What, like a recipe?" he asked, scratching behind his ear.

"Yeah, just usually less edible at the end."

Harry smiled. "Right."

"Spent most of these few weeks just figuring out how to read the trees and expand the limnal boundary to whoever touches the foundation."

"Can I see it?"

Ron looked uncertain, but, after a pause, he handed Harry the flower. When he took hold of it, nothing in particular seemed to change; it looked and felt like a normal plant. Holding it gingerly in both hands, he tried to survey any possible effects, but couldn't find any. "What is it supposed to do?"

"Nothing, right now. But-" He gestured for the flower and Harry passed it over. Taking out his wand, he cast a murmured spell, " _Ostendo Weasley_ ," which caused a glowing thread to attach to Ron's chest only. Unrolling it like a scroll, he peered at it, the glow lighting up his face, before he raised his wand to do something Harry couldn't see.

In a moment, a _Ligo_ concluded the spell, and he placed the flower on the table by Harry. "There. Now it should work."

Careful, Harry picked it up once more. "What is it going to-?"

He stopped talking immediately; his voice sounded loud, but also very strange, as if a chunk of it was missing somehow. Alarmed, he frowned at Ron. "What's happening?"

His friend didn't respond right away, instead leaning an elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. "Well, seems to be working," he remarked in Hagrid's direction. Despite his casual posture, there was a hint of pride in his tone.

"What is? I feel like my ears have cotton in them but-"

"Whatever it is you're saying," Ron cut through the middle of Harry's sentence. "I can't hear it, mate. You're in the boundary of the silencing ward."

"I can hear myself though…?"

When Ron didn't answer for an awkward length of time, offering only an amused stare, Harry quickly dropped the flower back on the table. "I could hear _myself,_ I said."

"Yeah, you're mainly just in a giant bubble that keeps the sound in," was Ron's prompt response. He shrugged. "It's a work in progress, anyway."

Harry shook his head. "No, I- I think it's brilliant."

"Really?"

There was a hopeful glint to his friend's eye, and Harry's timid smile murmured, "Well- yeah."

This seemed to please Ron a great deal; he actually preened. "Still a ways before it's ready, though," he commented.

"Ready for what?"

At that, his friend's countenance became conspiratorial. "The professor said the project would only be complete when I used it to shut Ren up for one full day."

Despite himself, Harry laughed, utterly bemused. " _Why?_ "

Ron shrugged, smiling himself. "Knowing them? Probably no reason at all."

"How do you know Ren will just… hold the flower the entire time…?"

"Well, _nobody_ would, obviously," the redhead pointed out. "That's why I've got to get in Ren's mind- suss out any weaknesses. Anticipate the next move. Keep a step ahead."

Harry sighed, amused. "Well, at least you're having fun."

"You know what? I am," Ron declared, leaning back in his seat with folded arms.

"On second thought," Harry observed, "I don't think I'll be much help with your project."

"You can be my test rat, if you want."

He wrinkled his nose. "Only if you don't call me Scabbers."

Ron laughed. "Wouldn't dream of it, mate."

A noise like a foghorn startled them both, heads whipping around to find the source. Hagrid, armchair kicked back and mug of tea still resting on his abdomen, was snoring. Fang, too, emitted a wheezy sort of sound in tandem, both of them fast asleep.

Harry turned back to Ron, lowering his voice. "I think we ought to go."

"It's not like anything we do is going to wake them," his friend pointed out.

"Yeah, but… still." Harry stood, grabbing his bag. Surveying their surroundings, he approached Hagrid with caution, pulling the half-full mug from his unclenched hand and placing it on the table beside him.

Ron appeared at his side, the flower and book tucked away. "Quidditch pitch, then? Hooch hasn't got first year lessons until noon."

He pushed open the door of the hut, the cold air refreshing after the unnatural heat of Hagrid's abode. Taking a contemplative breath as he looked out toward the greenhouses, he remarked, "No… I um. Think I ought to go to class, after all."

The redhead made a face. "Suit yourself. See you at lunch?"

"Yeah."

"Right- I'm off then," Ron said his goodbye, trudging in the direction of the Pitch. "Give Sprout my regards."

Harry snorted. "What is she going to do with your 'regards'?"

His friend paused only to shrug. "I dunno. Plant them?"

He rolled his eyes. "Sure. Then… See you at lunch."

And, with a small, acknowledging salute from Ron, they parted ways.

••••••••••

That night, it was with a heavy gait that Harry ascended the steps to the Headmaster's office; detentions were hard enough without having to stomach Dumbledore's presence. Harry wasn't sure he had the capacity to endure any more pointed lectures or disappointed stares, but neither could he ignore the summons. It was his penance, after all.

When he turned the doorknob to enter the room, Harry braced himself, anticipating some dire scene or other, but, instead, he caught a conversation.

"... exceptionally glad of it," Dumbledore was saying from where he stood beside the desk.

The answering voice was deeply familiar. "Of course - I am grateful for your patience with me, Albus-"

The second Harry caught sight of the back of the man's head, a swooping sort of feeling encompassed him, all thought of apprehension fled from his mind, and the tentative sound of his voice filled the space: "... Remus?"

The man had only half-turned when he found himself with an armful of Harry, who had crossed the room so suddenly that Remus grunted with the sudden impact. "Harry? What are you…?"

His heart was pounding in his ears. The embrace wasn't particularly comfortable; he'd caught Remus's arm at an odd angle, and he smelled strongly of smoke and chocolate. But he was _here_ , and _alive_ , and… and _not dead!_

Remus's free hand patted him on the back, but in a way that was more urgent than comforting. Harry's arms slackened a little as he looked up, and Remus let out a nervous laugh. "It's good to see you too, but ah… I'm not quite fully recovered from…"

 _Oh._ Harry instantly released the man, taking a sheepish step back. He'd done it without thinking, but, now that he fully comprehended what he'd done - in front of the Headmaster, at that - he felt horribly embarrassed.

Face red, he mumbled, "Sorry…"

"There's no need for you to be," Remus responded immediately. "Normally I wouldn't be so bad mid-month, but- extenuating circumstances and all that."

Harry wasn't sure what he meant by that, and it must have shown on his face, since the man offered him a sad smile before addressing the Headmaster. "Albus? Might I have a moment with Harry?"

"Of course!" Dumbledore said at once. "I had planned to step out with Minerva in any case. Take as long as you like."

The Headmaster, along with his flashy orange-yellow sunburst robes, left the room to the two of them. Harry marveled at the sharp turn his day had taken; unable to hold it, he laughed, "To think you'd be hosting my detentions again."

A smile crept onto Remus's face - a proper one, that time - and he raised both eyebrows. "Been causing trouble in my absence, then?"

He'd made the joke thoughtlessly, but now that Harry considered it... It wasn't funny at all. "I guess you could say that," he replied, evasive, before he smiled back. "You… you look well."

The man responded with a bark of disbelief. "You're too kind, but the last thing I've ever looked like in my life is 'well'," he countered, shrugging off his ever-shabby outer-robes. With a self-deprecating remark like that, Harry made a point to observe: Patchwork, faded and frayed clothing; bloodshot, sunken eyes; and a sickly pallor. All less than stellar, but not out of the ordinary. He was thinner, his hair a lot longer and accompanied by a short, messy beard, but otherwise? Harry couldn't say exactly why, but he felt as if Remus really _was_ well, despite appearances. Or- at least more well than he'd been before.

He didn't know how he knew, but he just… _did._

Remus grunted as he sank into one of the armchairs, huffing out a relieved breath. "Ah, that's better. A touch less painful, anyway."

Harry pulled over one of the wooden chairs, setting it directly by the man's side. "Are you hurt?"

"Yes, but it's nothing to speculate about," the man remarked, anticipating Harry's next question before he could ask it. "All ah… self-inflicted, you might say."

He frowned. "I thought you didn't have to worry so much about that, with Wolfsbane?"

Remus's smile was slight. Nervous. "Yes, well, that's… That's part of… _everything…_ "

Harry bristled. "Don't tell me Snape stopped making it for you-!"

"We will talk about it, I promise," Remus soothed him, patient. "But first, I wanted to hear how you've been doing."

A question he'd been dreading. What should he say? The truth? Not that he'd really know where to begin, but he also didn't want to dwell on everything that had been rattling in his head for weeks. This was one of the rare times he could escape it, and besides, he didn't want to burden Remus with his problems.

Nevertheless, it wasn't like he had much other news to tell. "I'm, uh, you know. Doing well in classes. We have a new Defense teacher again- but I suppose you probably knew that."

"I did," he affirmed. "I've not met her myself, but I've heard about her from her grandmother, Wil."

So that was the medic's first name. Wil Tenenbaum.

"She's an Order member as well," Remus supplied in the pause.

"Oh. Yeah, I know. We met."

One of the man's brow's arched. "Did you?"

Right… Did he even know that Harry had been leaving the school? "Yeah she uh- I saw her at Grimmauld Place."

"Over the summer?"

Harry cleared his throat. "No. Couple of weeks ago. I…" He looked the other man in the eye. "I went for Sirius's birthday."

Remus's gaze dropped down to his own hands, clasped in his lap. "November third," he murmured, wistful and fond all at once. "I'm… surprised you knew about it."

"Really? Why?"

"Sirius hated birthdays," he explained. "He never liked being reminded that he was getting older, so he refused to say when it was for years… He'd even owl himself fake presents from 'family members' at different times of year to throw us off the scent. James and I had to break into the school records to find out."

Harry barked out a laugh of disbelief. "What? That's- I mean, he told me right away when I asked him."

Remus turned to peer at him through the errant stands of his hair. "Well, I suppose that makes sense; he never could deny you anything."

Harry wasn't certain how to react to that. Remus's tone was so… undefinable. Sad, kind, pained, relieved. His gaze was fixed to the stones beneath their feet, expression grim. Tense. The silence felt more suffocating the longer it went on.

It didn't sit well with Harry; he folded his arms and let out a sigh. "Do you miss him?"

Remus sucked in a breath, eyes snapping to Harry as if he'd just noticed he was there. "Yes- of course I do," he affirmed, though the words seemed to arrive too quickly. The man rubbed a hand over his eyes, uncurling from his hunched position to lean back in his seat. "Sorry, I'm… _I do._ Miss him, I mean. But, this is actually… related to what I came here to talk to you about."

And Harry watched him, expectant, but found himself face-to-face with Remus's reticence. The man's thoughts appeared to meander as they attempted to find a way to reach him. In a few minutes, he hadn't gotten any closer to what he wanted to say. With a gusty sigh, Remus sat back against the plush of his armchair and looked toward the ceiling.

Then, the man gave him a half-hearted smile after a chuckle that was self-effacing. "Didn't think we'd circle back to this so quickly."

Harry frowned. "I'm sorry- we can talk about something else if you-"

"No, no- it's fine, Harry," Remus insisted, shaking his arms out with sudden energy. "Bit ridiculous for me to try and put it off anyway. You deserve answers, don't you? About why I've been gone."

He shook his head. "You- As long as you're safe, it doesn't matter, honestly. You don't owe me any-"

"But I wasn't safe," the man remarked. "And it's not what you might be thinking- I wasn't _in danger,_ in the literal sense, but I might as well have been."

Harry looked the man in the eye, next words tentative. "What do you mean?"

"To tell it plain," Remus started, pausing momentarily, "these last four months, I've been… self-destructing."

Another pause. Harry didn't interrupt; the man was clearly sorting his thoughts.

"I've not been doing well for a long time, actually. I ah, have a… _history of hopelessness,_ you might say. But it all came to a head when Sirius-" He broke off, sighing. "And after that, I just couldn't handle it. I ran away and… hoped to die."

Harry's eyes widened, gaze traveling across the man's frame. When that was concluded, he looked up at the man's face as if he could divine a reason by observation alone. "Why would you do that?" he asked, the question both quiet and confused.

Perhaps it was more accusing than he'd intended; Remus sounded upset when he replied. "It's… not always something I can help-"

"Oh, I- I know," Harry rushed to say. "I just… I mean, I know Sirius was your friend…" _But I don't understand._

"He was." This declaration was both reserved and gentle. As if he were placing something heavy, but fragile, between them. "But my troubles in that regard are only a section of the full picture."

 _Troubles?_ "What do you mean?"

The man gave him a considering look. "Harry, do you know what depression is?"

He didn't see how this was related to anything, and it was an odd question besides. "Of course I do, but-"

"Not many wizards do," the man commented, his interruption gentle. "It's not just sadness, it's… There's a true _emptiness_ at the heart of it- a feeling of worthlessness too dispassionate to be called self-hatred, and too all-consuming to pass through painlessly. A daily battle against yourself to function at even a basic level, to chase away an oppressive melancholy that always hangs by your side."

Harry's insides felt tight and heavy. A lot of that sounded… _familiar._ Terribly so. But, he wasn't so bad off, was he? Sure, he'd been having some trouble motivating himself, or finding a reason to care about some of his classes. Getting in that fight with Malfoy was insanely stupid. And fighting with Ron and Hermione and Cleo didn't feel great. And Snape was… himself. But- Harry hadn't _always_ felt as bad as he did now. He didn't feel worthless, per se, and he certainly didn't want to die.

So it… _probably_ wasn't the same.

Probably. _Yeah._

"Okay," Harry murmured around the lump in his throat.

Remus leaned over the arm of the chair, almost as if he desperately desired to get close to Harry, but was still too uncertain if he should. "Depression is something I've struggled with for as long as I can remember," Remus admitted. "For a great while, I didn't have a name for it, and I lumped it in with the grief I felt for my condition. But even when things went well for me, when I had the support of all my friends- it lingered and went unaddressed. My desire to live has always been… hard to grasp."

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, for a lack of anything better to say.

Remus's expression shifted to concern. "Please, don't be," he insisted. "I'm not telling you all this to make you feel bad; it is simply context- an attempt to explain. I am faring much better now than I have in the past."

"Okay." Harry's gaze dropped to the man's hands, calloused and scarred.

"Harry. Do you believe me?"

He lifted his head, staring forward. "Yeah."

"Alright," Remus murmured, apparently satisfied. "Do you… have any questions?"

"About what?"

"Well, anything," the man replied, softly clapping his hands on his knees. "No point continuing if I've lost you somewhere."

Harry sighed his answer. "No, I… I understand about… you know."

That wrung a hoarse chuckle from the man. "'Depression', Harry. Let us resist allowing the word to transcend to nonverbal status."

He grimaced, parroting back, " _Depression,_ then."

The beginnings of mirth colored his tone. "Is it so very difficult to say?"

Harry rolled his eyes, but the gesture was undercut by the way the corners of his mouth ticked upward. "I don't know."

Remus's smile turned into a smirk. "The mighty Harry Potter, who can say _Voldemort_ without flinching, is afraid of a little depression?"

Uncomfortable, but trying not to let it show, Harry said, "I'm not afraid…"

"No, you aren't," the man agreed, affable. "Sorry- I have the unfortunate habit of sharing poorly-crafted jokes to lighten the mood."

"You did," he insisted, trying to sound encouraging. "I mean- it wasn't that bad."

The man openly laughed, full and ringing. The sound of it was shocking to Harry, as if he were hearing it for the first time. "You sound like _Lily._ She would always endure my terrible humor with unparalleled grace."

The unexpected mention of his mother left him feeling strange. He knew Remus had been friends with his father, but… "You knew my mum?"

"Of course," was the prompt answer. "She married one of my best friends, didn't she? I saw her all the time."

Laid out like that, it seemed really stupid that he hadn't put that together himself. "Right, uhm- yeah."

"Even after things became a little… _tense_ with the war," Remus elaborated, his tipped head signaling what an understatement that was, "Lily and I stayed good friends."

"I just thought… You talked about my dad a lot, and…"

"Your mum too," the man pointed out, the reminder gentle. "Most especially when the Dementors were giving you trouble; I could never have let her _death_ be your only memory of her."

Harry could have kicked himself. Of course. _Of course._ He may have had a lot on his mind lately, and it was years since he'd been able to really sit down with Remus like this, but it was absolutely _baffling_ that he could have forgotten- he was one of the main people to give Harry a proper frame of reference at all. Someone who had truly _known_ his mother, instead of the vague good opinions he'd heard from everyone else.

What Luna told him came to mind. _There are still people to ask._

But, before he could formulate an inquiry, Remus reached up to lay a hand on his shoulder. "You know- I've missed you, Harry," he admitted, his tone warm. "Of all the things I came to say, I want you to know that is the most important one."

Embarrassed, he shifted in his seat. "Um, thanks?"

"It can't have been easy to live the life you have," he continued, "but here you are. Still standing. Or- Well. _Sitting,_ rather."

Harry couldn't match Remus's amiable smile; his stomach was twisted in knots. "I haven't really done anything."

"I've met your extended family, Harry." The man raised his eyebrows. "Not a lovely bunch, to say the least." _That_ was putting it lightly. Though, of course, Remus hardly knew the first thing about what life was like at the Dursleys. "But you've endured that alone, just the same as you have everything else."

"I wasn't alone," Harry balked. "I _always_ had help."

A frown crept onto Remus's face. "Yes… I suppose you did."

Remus's expression bothered him. "What?" he prompted.

"I… should have been here for you," he commented, sighing. "After Sirius died, I should have-"

"Don't blame yourself," was his quick rebuttal. "It was… I mean- It was a bad time for everyone, so that doesn't mean-"

"Let's not downplay our direct involvement either," Remus insisted, earnest. "You and I were the closest people to Sirius. I may have many of my own regrets in that regard, but that's not an excuse for running away and leaving you to deal with it on your own."

"But-!"

His protest was silenced by the man's raised hand. "Please. Allow me this apology so that I may make peace with myself _and_ you."

Harry frowned, but complied. "Okay. Then… I forgive you."

"You don't have to, but I appreciate the gesture," Remus sighed, giving Harry's shoulder a squeeze before letting go. "And I intend to make _amends_ by being here now. I can't make up for lost time, and I can't…" The man swallowed, starting again. "I know- I can never _replace_ Sirius, but… I want to be someone you can rely on. Someone you can speak to when times are tough. Somewhere to turn when you need help with… anything."

Remus met his eyes. "Whatever you need, I'm here. Alright?"

The sentiment was good. Sincerely spoken, Harry felt. But, at the same time, he couldn't help the spark of doubt which seized him. The adults around him had always promised their support, their _availability._ On some level, they never quite seemed to measure up - only Sirius had ever lived by his word, but even he was hindered by forces outside his control.

He broke those constraints once, and look where it got him.

Remus wasn't lying- _that_ Harry knew, but still… Wasn't this him being nice, as always? It felt just as sudden as the declaration he'd received from Sirius, but the comparison wasn't doing him any favors; instead, Harry felt sick to his stomach. Had Remus really thought this through? After all, clearly the man had enough on his plate, and this was just _another-_

"Did Dumbledore put you up to this?"

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth; Remus's expression seemed to turn itself inside out, the subtle lines of his face becoming shadowed in the process. His hands were tightly knotted in his lap.

Horrified, Harry rushed to backtrack. "No, erm- Forget I said anything-"

"It's alright," the man said, though there was profound sadness in his tone. "You don't have to apologize for not trusting me. I haven't exactly… inspired confidence."

"I- I didn't mean-"

"It's okay, Harry, _really,_ " was his insistent reply. He had drawn back in the chair. Despite his assurances, Harry could feel the distance. "It's okay."

But it wasn't. He could tell. The openness between them had shuttered, the mood gone cold. He'd really hurt the man's feelings. Why did he say that? What sort of monster was he, that he felt comfortable having a go at Remus just for _caring_ about him? If he wasn't such a bloody _mess,_ he wouldn't be getting into all these pointless arguments and _hurting_ people-

He wished he could turn back the clock and react to the heartfelt moment like a _normal_ person, but he couldn't. Because he wasn't. He just bloody _wasn't-_

"Harry."

His head twitched upward, but he couldn't look Remus in the eye.

"Are you alright? You're breathing a little fast."

He was right, but the last thing Harry wanted was to trouble Remus further than he already had. "I'm fine."

"You don't look it."

"I said I'm _fine,_ " Harry snapped on impulse.

He heard a crinkling sound and, in a moment, an unraveled bar of chocolate appeared in his field of vision. He stared at it, brows pulled low over his eyes. "I'm not thirteen any longer, you know," he commented, sullen. "You can't just hand me _sweets_ all the time-"

"All the time?" Remus commented, an amused lilt to his voice. "You make it sound like I see you regularly."

He had no idea if that was a dig at him or not, but regardless he blurted, "I'm sorry, okay? I _do_ trust you, and- and I don't think you're a bad person, or a liar, or-"

"Harry, please." He jiggled the bar as a reminder. "Have some chocolate and calm down."

He didn't want the bloody _chocolate,_ he wanted to take back his bloody _words!_ But- he couldn't. They were already in Remus's ears, festering. Ruining _everything._ But- in the face of that reality, what else could he do but what was asked of him?

Harry snatched the bar out of the man's grip, biting off a chunk. He was too upset to savor it, swallowing immediately.

He looked up at the man expectantly. Remus raised his eyebrows. "Don't hold back on my account. There's more where that came from."

"I'm not hungry."

The wrinkles on the man's forehead grew more pronounced. "I know that."

Disgruntled, Harry stared at the ground. His breathing wasn't so labored, but he wasn't calm either. The words they'd spoken were jumbled around his mind.

"I'm sorry," he said, subdued.

"I understand that," Remus assured him. "But this isn't your fault, Harry."

 _Wasn't it?_ He took another large bite of the bar, then grimaced. It tasted like dirt. "What's in this?" he found himself saying.

"Oh- ah, sorry. It's _dark_ chocolate," came the sheepish reply. "My father's idea of looking after my health."

That certainly piqued his interest. "Your father?"

Remus expelled a short breath through his nose. "Yes. Believe it or not, I do actually have one."

"Well-" Harry fumbled. "You never really talked about-"

"Oh, no, I most certainly didn't," Remus was quick to clarify. "I meant it more as a reminder to myself than you; he is also someone I haven't been keeping in touch with very well."

"Why not?" he inquired, the foil around the chocolate bar crinkling as he abandoned it in his lap.

"It's a long story, but let's just say our relationship has been more… _strained_ since Mum passed away," the man explained, matter-of-fact.

Harry frowned. "Oh. Erm, sorry…"

Remus waved a hand. "It's been many years since, and he and I are in the process of reconnecting besides. The situation is more a result of my own stubbornness than anything."

Despite his mood, Harry couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "You? _Stubborn?_ "

"The rumors are true." His voice was amused. "Although I may look unassuming, I'm actually a whole _heap_ of trouble."

"That doesn't make sense."

"What? That I can be stubborn?" The smile on his face grew a little brighter. "I may not put my foot down very much, but when I do…"

Harry was poised to say that he'd never seen him be that way, but then a memory sprang to his mind: Remus packing his suitcase to leave Hogwarts, determination in his step as he finalized his resignation, leaving school premises before the end of term celebrations had even begun… deaf to any and all objections.

"I suppose," he conceded, subdued. Remus peered at him, brow furrowed.

"Are you alright, Harry?" he asked, his tone careful.

"Yeah, I'm fine now." When the man still looked doubtful, he tacked on: " _Really._ I'm fine."

"It's okay if you aren't. I won't think less of-"

"There's nothing wrong. You don't need to worry about me."

"I will do that in any case," Remus stated. "But, still- I will take you at your word."

Harry blew out a puff of air. "Good."

"Well." The man shifted in his seat, wincing before he placed his hands on the armrests in preparation to lift himself up. "I hate to leave so soon, but I'm afraid there's little choice when I'm in this state."

Harry sprang from his seat, arms held out awkwardly, willing but unsure how to help. "Are your wounds really so bad?"

"Recovery wouldn't normally be this slow, but I haven't been taking care of myself for months," Remus explained with a grimace, taking hold of Harry's arm. "And it's nothing to do with Severus, mind. In fact, I suspect he'd be rather cross to know I've been letting all his hard work spoil and go to waste."

Harry frowned. "He's still making your potion? Even after he got you fired?"

"Hasn't missed a single month," he sighed. "Though I doubt it's kindness that motivates him, I can do nothing except be grateful."

Nodding, Harry prompted, "Are you okay to stand?"

"Yes, shortly," Remus informed him, grip tightening on Harry's arm. "My health issues are compounded at present, and, despite whatever superhuman healing I may or may not possess, I am not so young or spry as I used to be."

He stood slowly, carefully, groaning all the way. "Can't you see a Healer?" Harry inquired.

"I have, actually," Remus replied, a touch of humor to his voice. "They told me in no uncertain terms to stay in bed and rest. But, clearly, that's an order I have disregarded."

Harry's answering smile was lopsided on account of his confusion. "Why?"

The man steadied himself on his feet before laying his hands on both of Harry's upper arms. "Because I thought it was more important to see you," he stated simply. Harry felt a rush of warm feeling so strong that it sent moisture to the back of his eyes. "And now that I have- I think it's time I head back."

Releasing Harry, he moved in the direction of the fireplace. He shadowed behind, keeping an eye on the man. His gait was slow, but sure. His hand didn't waver when he grabbed the Floo powder. His breaths were even, calm. He was obviously tired, but there was something about him altogether… collected.

He looked well. Despite his injuries, his inner demons- Harry decided his first assessment had been correct. Remus looked well. And that knowledge was a comfort, despite the turmoil that Harry was facing himself.

"Hey, Harry?"

When he raised his head toward the man, Remus's eyes looked amber in the firelight. "Hm?"

"I'll be back," he vowed, earnest. "And you can contact me any time. Owl, Floo call, anything."

There was still something about that which made him feel odd, but all Harry said was, "Of course."

"Take care of yourself, alright?"

Harry nodded, raising a hand in a haphazard goodbye. The flames turned bright green.

"See you later."

As Remus disappeared from the office, Harry didn't feel inclined to say it back.

••••••••••

He'd spent the last several days preparing for three important - but inevitably unpleasant - meetings.

The first was with Snape. After having missed two classes in a row, walking back into the Potions room felt somehow foreign, like he was seeing it for the first time. Nobody looked at him as he found his seat; aside from the shuffle of pages turning and the metallic scrapes of cauldrons being set up, there was complete silence.

The professor addressed him the moment he sat down. "Your essay is late, Potter."

The sound of the man's voice sent a chill up his spine. _You will need to make your own way back._ Those words, emblazoned in his memory.

Still. He'd been working hard to catch up in this class; he needed the N.E.W.T. to be an Auror. He wasn't about to let Snape take that away from him.

Harry glanced sideways at Hermione, but her back was to him as she set up her burner. No support from that quarter today. His eyes traveled next to Cleo, but, to his surprise, her seat was empty. He'd never seen her miss a Potions class before.

Regardless, Snape's glare was bearing down on him, heavier by the second. Lacking allies entirely, Harry steeled himself, spurring his voice to action. "I don't have it," he announced, facing the professor squarely.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Then you will receive a failing grade."

He took in a breath. "Yes, sir."

The professor's gaze lingered on him for a moment more, but then the exchange was done; he said nothing else. Harry could hardly contain his shock.

However, he ought to have prepared himself for the brutality of the rest of the class period. Snape was merciless, passing by his work table every few minutes to sneer about his technique, belittle his progress, and fashion every critique into a personal attack. Heroically, Harry managed to not respond for the full two hours, keeping to the muscle memories of what he'd studied.

At the end of class, he slammed the stoppered potion onto Snape's desk with a little more force than was necessary. It was much poorer quality than the ones he'd practiced with Cleo; Harry _knew_ he could do better.

And he _hated_ that he'd let Snape get to him after all.

His second meeting was with Malfoy. Dumbledore had arranged for a bedside chat in the Hospital Wing - supervised, of course. Harry grimaced at the stern look Madam Pomfrey gave him when he approached. _No funny business,_ it said. Ugh. It wasn't like he was planning to have another go at Malfoy just then, especially not in the state the boy was in.

The Slytherin was sitting up in bed, but barely appeared to hold his own weight. The remnants of his bruises were still fading. Terribly pale and stiff, he seemed closer to being a ghost than a person. It was a far cry from the Malfoy of years prior who had wailed and bemoaned a trivial wound for attention; this Malfoy was quiet, unmoving. He glared at Harry with darkly-circled, sunken eyes.

"What do you want?" the boy addressed him after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. His tone was so quiet and subdued that Harry had nearly missed it.

He took in a determined breath, swallowing his pride. Might as well out with it quickly.

"I'm sorry."

The words felt razor-sharp as they were dragged from his throat. He absolutely despised the sound of them. He wasn't _sorry._ He knew that Malfoy had done something. Whatever had happened- he'd only done it to himself. Having to spout such a bald-faced lie was unbearable.

Malfoy didn't react at all, except to look him in the eye. Didn't say a single word.

Harry swallowed his humiliation, hoping not to lose his nerve. "My actions were unacceptable, and will not be repeated," he recited.

There was another pause, this one feeling heavier. The Slytherin stared at him all the while, before saying, "Is that all?"

Blood raced beneath his skin. "Guess _so,_ " he sneered through gritted teeth.

"Great." Infuriatingly, he turned on his side, facing away from Harry.

He looked to Madam Pomfrey, half a bemused inquiry and half a silent request to leave. She promptly said, "Mr. Malfoy needs his rest. You'd best be getting on, Mr. Potter."

Gladly, he took his leave. But the brief encounter still left a sour taste in his mouth.

His third and final meeting was a less structured affair. He'd been meaning to figure a way to approach a certain seventh year, but hadn't yet formulated a plan when he met the boy entirely by chance.

"Urquhart," Harry addressed him from across the corridor.

The Slytherin had barely emerged from the History of Magic classroom, surrounded by a few friends who all turned to look. His reply was simple, neutral. Not an ounce of malice, despite the accusations he'd heaped on Harry previously. "Potter."

Lunch could wait, Harry decided. "Been meaning to talk to you."

The seventh year watched him with flat affect. "Have you?"

"Yeah," he replied, his stare direct. "You have a minute?"

He conferred with his group of friends with shared, suspicious looks before something was apparently decided, nonverbal. He stepped up in front of Harry, towering over him massively. "After you."

They ended up out on the grounds, in the viaduct courtyard. Scattered groups of students coming from Herbology and Astronomy passed by, heading to the Great Hall no doubt, but Harry spotted someone familiar traveling the opposite direction. A mass of wiry, wild brown hair, bobbing its way up the stairwell that led toward the Astronomy Tower. Wasn't that… Cleo's friend, Thea?

 _Focus._ His gaze settled back on Urquhart. This opportunity was too important to squander. "I have some questions," he announced, point-blank. Urquhart just raised an eyebrow and gestured for Harry to continue.

Taking a breath, he stated, "I want to know what happened. That day, with you and Malfoy."

"Don't you already know?" His tone was mocking. "I beat the little Flobberworm into-"

"Yeah, I get it," Harry cut him off, frowning. "But what I _don't_ understand is why."

Urquhart's hands delved into his robe pockets and he turned, as if to leave. "Well, when you figure it out, let me know."

For a second, Harry was dumbfounded. Slow to react, he had to jog a few paces to head off the Slytherin's departure. " _Hey!_ Where are you going?!"

"There's really nothing to say, Potter," Urquhart replied, scowling. "I'm rather tired of having to answer this question."

"Well, I'm not here to _gossip,_ " he retorted. "I'm here to figure out what Malfoy is playing at."

"Well then, _Inspector,_ " the Slytherin ridiculed, lifting his chin, "you'd best form _better questions._ "

Harry grimaced. Why on Earth were Slytherins so _incomprehensibly_ difficult to talk to? "Fine," he said, clipped. "Why did you attack Malfoy?"

"That's the _same_ question," Urquhart derided, visibly rankled. "But since it wasn't clear to you the first time: I couldn't tell you. There is no answer. I don't _know._ "

A hopeful feeling flowed through him, filling his next question with energy, "You didn't have a reason to fight? You weren't angry?"

"Of course I was _angry,_ " Urquhart spat. "Just not enough to lose my composure."

"But you did," Harry observed, pressing his lips together in thought.

"Obviously."

He looked at the Slytherin squarely. "And you ended up nearly killing him- for nothing but a petty insult?"

"I desperately hope that rumor about you wanting to be an Auror is a lie," Urquhart sneered. "Because you are in _such_ a bad way if it isn't-"

"I _am,_ actually," Harry felt compelled to say. "But I'm not- Look, I get that you don't _like_ me. But this thing with Malfoy? It happened to me too."

His posture and the clipped way his shoulders jerked upward said only one thing: _And?_

"If I can prove that he used dark magic to force us to attack him, then that proves our innocence," he laid out. "Which would mean no more annoying questions, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, I see," Urquhart mused, his head canting. "You're stupid enough to actually think the truth just magically fixes everything."

Harry folded his arms, already beginning to regret starting this conversation. "I'm not _stupid._ "

"Proving _how_ the event happened doesn't change that it _happened,_ " the Slytherin jeered. "And maybe for famous little Harry Potter, that's all that's needed to make the difference. Things are much more complicated for the rest of us."

"If that's true, then wouldn't you like 'famous little Harry Potter' to be on your side?" he snapped back alongside his fiercest glare.

"I don't care, because the damage is already done," Urquhart seethed. "And the fact you can't even grasp that tells me how utterly deluded you are."

"What, so I'm 'deluded' because I'm not willing to take this lying down?!"

Harry observed as the boy's shoulders drew back. He answered with another question. "What do you think your role in this war is, Potter?"

Caught off-guard by the swift change of subject, Harry could only say, "What?"

"I thought I was straightforward," Urquhart observed. "Where do you think you fit into this narrative? What do you think your job is?"

Harry didn't have a ready answer. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"Just answer the question, Potter," Urquhart demanded, lips twisted into a frown. "Or do you truly not know?"

He grimaced, his reply acerbic. "Fight Death Eaters? Defeat Voldemort? Clearly?"

"What do you think will happen, then?" the Slytherin questioned, the intensity of his stare weighing down on him. "When Voldemort dies, what changes?"

He wouldn't have to worry about which of his friends might be murdered next. He would never have to see the Dursleys ever again. He would exist without constantly fearing for his life or the lives of his loved ones.

He would be free. He might even get a full night's sleep, for once.

The edges were fuzzy, though. It felt like such a long way off that Harry could barely picture it. Like a figure in smoke, it dissipated whenever he tried to focus on it.

Rather than voicing those jumbled thoughts, he retorted, "The war ends."

"The war ends," Urquhart repeated, each word growing exponentially more virulent. His chuckle was bitter. "The war had _already_ ended. For fourteen years. Or do you not remember? Your vaunted moment of heroism as an infant? And what happened, Potter? What changed?"

Harry set his jaw, glaring. It didn't really matter if he had an answer or not; the Slytherin apparently didn't care to leave him the room to respond. "Nothing. _Nothing_ changed, Potter. A couple Death Eaters locked away in Azkaban, with a few others given clemency with a pathetic _Imperius_ defense _._ We still had the same, milquetoast Minister who was either incapable or _unwilling_ to do anything about the underlying ideology that led to the war in the first place. The same, ineffective government that allowed Lucius Malfoy to continue working, unimpeded, on the same bloody track Voldemort set him on before he died." Urquhart crossed his arms. "Because it turns out, Potter, you don't have to be a blatant _terrorist_ in order to enact Blood Supremacy. It turns out, most of the populace has something against the non-magical and are _very_ willing to open the door to policy that would limit the rights of those of non-magical heritage, so long as you aren't loud about it. You don't have to call them _Mudbloods,_ just malcontents. Anarchists. Troublemakers. Criminals. Because then it _isn't_ about blood- even when it is.

"And _that's_ your problem, Potter," he accused, bent over him. "Your scope is too narrow. You get caught up with oversimplifications - defeating Voldemort, uncovering the truth, like these things will be the actual catalyst for change. They _aren't._ It's one tiny _part_ of the problem. So what if you uncover the truth about Malfoy? What does that do? Will it stop his family from potentially pressing criminal charges against me? Will it make Dumbledore take back the restrictions he put on me? No - he _wanted_ an excuse to shut me up and he _got_ one. Knowing whether or not Malfoy stacked the deck in his favor won't make him back down."

"Dumbledore isn't some _villain!_ " Harry countered. "He's a good man, and he's only doing what he thinks is best-"

"His 'best' is an incredibly short-sighted and discriminatory attempt to solve a problem he's too ill-equipped to handle," Urquhart argued. "Or, more likely, one he doesn't care to."

"At least he's doing something to weed out the Death-Eaters-in-training that are in _your_ House!" was his irate reply. "You complain about how nobody is willing to act, but _he is!_ "

"He's been at the head seat of the Wizengamot for _years,_ " Urquhart seethed. "If he wanted to do something about Blood Supremacy - something that wasn't as petty as taking his anger out on _school children_ \- he _could have._ But, hey, what can one expect from someone who used to pal around with Grindelwald?"

"What is your problem?" Harry studied the boy's face, unable to comprehend. "Maybe if you weren't so bloody _hostile,_ you'd realize I'm trying to _help_ you!"

"You aren't," the Slytherin denied, deadpan. "If you were, you would have come to me weeks ago."

"I'm here now!"

"Because _your_ neck is on the chopping block," Urquhart accused.

Harry let out a frustrated breath through his teeth. "So, what? You'd rather I give up instead?" he spat, disgusted.

"I don't care what you do." Urquhart's laugh was caught somewhere in between amusement and disbelief. "Just keep me out of it."

"What is _with_ you Slytherins?" Harry erupted, unable to contain it. "You're so bloody concerned with yourselves, but then you turn around and accuse the rest of us of 'separating' you when you do that all on your own!"

"You don't have the nuance, much less the _vocabulary,_ to even argue this point, Potter," he retorted. "If you want to be indignant about the fact I'm not falling over myself to ingratiate your bloated savior complex, do it elsewhere."

"I don't have a 'savior complex'!" he argued, one arm lifting to gesture in a single, wild swing. "And we're not talking about _me-!_ "

"Oh, aren't we?" Urquhart scoffed.

By that point, Harry wasn't all that certain what they _were_ talking about. "Have you ever considered the fact that maybe people don't like you because you _make_ yourself unlikeable?"

"I already told you that you don't have the depth for this conversation, Potter," he countered, albeit tiredly. "So unless you want to ask something worth answering, my friends are waiting for me."

What more was there to ask? Harry had thought he might find an ally from within Slytherin, _but…_ Clearly, that was a pointless venture. Had been from the start. Urquhart, Malfoy, Snape… None of them were the helpful type. He wasn't sure why he'd even bothered coming here, when it was all such a colossal waste of time.

"No," he answered as he turned away, all the fire gone from his voice. "I'll manage myself."

 _Like I always have._

••••••••••

He had barely seen Hermione all week. She'd always been known to keep an insane schedule, but it seemed like she was making herself even more scarce than usual - a difficult feat when she and Harry shared five classes together. Considering everything that had happened between them lately, she probably _was_ avoiding him.

Harry missed her.

He could tell Ron did too, even if he didn't come out and say it. At the very least, the redhead had agreed to come along to the EARWIG meeting in full support of their friend. Harry had taken great pains to extract a vow from Ron that he keep any critical remarks to himself.

Maybe it wasn't a reconciliation, but it was _something._ He could only hope that would be enough.

"Surprised so many people showed up," was Ron's low grumble for Harry's ears only. The observation was a touch backhanded, he noticed, but at least Ron had thus far been abiding by the rules.

With a frown, Harry replied, "It's a lot less than before."

Gathered in the Muggle Studies room was a paltry third of the number that had attended the first meeting two weeks ago. Most of the gathered group was unfamiliar; a lot of the Gryffindors were from the lower years, who Harry had never met, but, thankfully, there were still people from his year milling about. No Padma, which was to be expected, but he spotted Parvati and Ginny chatting together, along with Fay and Scarlett. Megan and Justin were among a small group of returning Hufflepuffs, and, surprisingly, there were a lot of Ravenclaws, many of whom seemed to be attending for the first time. Notably, the gathering had also held on to a few… undesirables.

"It's that Slytherin girl from last time," Harry mentioned, and Ron turned to look. The long, brunette ponytail, the carefree confidence of her gait, the wicked slant of her mouth as she smiled at the students around her as if they were blessed to exist in proximity to her… That Ann girl was definitely trouble.

Ron sat up a little straighter, glancing back at Harry briefly before his gaze drew back to the girl. "She's fit," he casually remarked.

Harry couldn't hide his look of disgust. "What, you _fancy_ her?"

The redhead shrugged. " _No,_ what do you take me for? I'm not mental, _thanks,_ " he retorted. "But still. Not bad to look at."

"Really going to have to disagree, mate."

"Oh, yeah? Not weepy enough to be your type?"

Harry's flat, unamused look drew a chuckle from Ron.

"Thought you'd have done with Cho, after all that-" He gestured vaguely in the air. It was a fitting non-description for the awkwardness Harry had endured.

"I have," he insisted. "Not a shred of interest anymore, promise. She's got a boyfriend now, anyway. Didn't you know?"

"Didn't know, didn't ask, didn't care."

Harry wanted to smile and frown at the same time; it came out as a grimace. "Fair enough."

Ron sighed, settling back down in his seat. "How long are we going to have to wait?" he complained.

The question worked as well as a Summoning Charm: The door to the room swung wide open. Harry turned, expecting to see Hermione, but instead he saw the flash of a lavender wheelchair zooming by. Professor Tenenbaum rolled in with the subtlety of a thunderclap, cutting through the center of the group without hesitation and making shrewd eye contact with everyone present as she passed.

Well. As far as keeping the peace went, he supposed there were few better choices for faculty chaperone. Still, Harry hoped she'd keep that strict eye of hers away from him; it was hard enough to deal with her demands in class, much less outside of it.

Thankfully, Hermione made her entrance soon thereafter - a much more modest one by comparison, but not lacking in confidence. In fact, her gait was so thoroughly determined, mouth set in such a grim line, and attitude so calmly focused that, upon further inspection, she appeared every bit as put together as Professor Tenenbaum.

The room had fallen very quiet. Waiting. Hermione, positioning herself at the front of the room, didn't keep them in suspense for long.

"This meeting is for the Equal Academic Representation in Wizarding Institutions Group," she announced, voice clear and precise. "If anyone in this room is here by mistake, sating an errant curiosity, or does not support _Muggleborn equality,_ then you can leave now."

Silence. Harry looked around during the pause, but nobody moved.

"I want to be very clear: this is not just a petty school 'club'. It is an organization built to protect the lives of students of non-magical heritage. It is a belief and a commitment to incite change. If you're just looking to kill time for an hour a week, this isn't the place for you."

He glanced sideways at Ron, but the other boy's attention was squarely on Hermione.

She continued after another, shorter pause. "I postponed this second meeting an extra week so that I could compile all the information at my disposal. And what I've found is disturbing.

"There are just under three hundred Muggleborn-authored texts that have disappeared from the library shelves, many ancient and irreplaceable. In their place were installed books that support an alternate, 'Ministry approved' curricula, implying that non-magical ideas are at best inferior, and at worst dangerous, radical and worthy of destruction.

"But that isn't the end of it," Hermione continued. "Professor Burbage has stated that objects of Muggle origin were confiscated from her classroom and private quarters last year, without her knowledge or consent, and those items have never been returned. The Ministry appears to have no record of their ever being seized at all.

"And these aren't just 'recent developments', they are escalations of a problem that has plagued the Wizarding world for _generations._ My peers and predecessors alike have had slurs whispered to them in the halls, they have been barred from club activities and snubbed for accolades. They have been looked down upon and underestimated-"

She breathed in, apparently to steady herself. "For my whole time at Hogwarts… I have rarely felt appreciated, and almost never have I felt truly safe," she admitted, gripping the lectern tightly. "I'm _tired_ of it. And any true member of this organization should be too."

Her eyes caught on Harry's, but she just as quickly looked away, expression unchanging. The moment twisted his insides to painful knots.

A hand went up in the midst of the group. Hermione gestured for them to speak.

Predictably, it was Ann. "Does that mean we're _not_ going to do anything fun?" she questioned with an air of petulance, her arms loosely folded in front of her.

The inquiry was so laughably tone deaf that Harry wasn't at all surprised when Ginny responded within an instant, "Weren't you listening? This isn't about _fun,_ you twit!"

"Well, um," a Hufflepuff girl - Megan, if Harry recalled correctly - lifted her voice, "Everyone did think of some _really_ good ideas last time, and it would be a shame if-"

"I want to address those of you who may feel as if I've let them down," Hermione quickly cut in before she had the chance to be overwhelmed again. "I don't want you to think I don't care about your struggles, because I do. I _really_ do. However, I must concede that I'm only one person. The scope of these issues are beyond my ability to handle all at once. The original conceit of this organization was to address discrimination against those of non-magical heritage, and that is where I intend to place my attention. That doesn't mean issues of racism or bullying don't overlap with this - they absolutely do. And in the instances of that overlap, I will not ignore the instigators or the roots of that discrimination. I can promise you that. But in the meanwhile I ask for your patience as we push forward. I don't want to fight with any of you."

"I don't think any of us came here to fight," Eddie Carmichael mentioned, looking about. "We have a united cause, don't we?"

Fay shared a look with the other Gryffindor girls before remarking, with a pointed glance at the gathered Slytherins, "Do we?"

"If we don't, I've made it quite clear what needs to happen," Hermione remarked. "The mishaps of the last meeting - I'm not letting us do that again."

Ann flicked her hair over her shoulder with a snap of her wrist, saying, "Well, I'm sure we're all glad of _that,_ since _some_ people were harboring an unfortunate _prejudice_ against Slytherins."

Harry glared at her, unable to stop his retort. "Don't pretend you had _nothing_ to do with it-"

The look Hermione shot him was full of warning, despite how even-keeled she sounded as she addressed the rest of the room. "As I mentioned earlier, there is a concerted, administrative effort to ban material sympathetic to those who are non-magical or of non-magical heritage and label it as 'dangerous' or 'radical.' I know the matter of missing academic material isn't exciting to the lot of you, but it must be addressed. I have a few ideas on how to begin tackling the issue myself, but I'm willing to open the floor to suggestions if anyone has them, or hear _on-topic_ issues that we can put on the docket for future projects."

A hand rose from the group of Gryffindor girls and Hermione's face lit up. "Yes, Scarlet?"

Scarlet stood from her seat, hands dropping down behind her back. "It might be dumb, but uhm-" The girl's eyes swam across the sea of faces before she addressed Hermione again. "I know letter writing campaigns are _very_ effective when it comes to-"

"For a letter to have any weight, you'd first need _presence,_ " Justin Finch-Fletchley pointed out. "Else it will go straight to the bin."

Scarlet frowned at him. "That's… not even remotely true. Otherwise the general public wouldn't hold any weight whatsoever when it attempted to object to something its government was doing?" Her head canted. "Muggles do it all the time."

Justin scowled. "I'm a Muggleborn," he mentioned. "So yes, I _know_ that. But- organizations stage fundraisers, hold events… We need to be _visible-_ "

"A small group made up of teenagers is easily ignored by the Ministry," Eddie commented with a sigh.

Terry Boot, seated next to him, challenged, "Well, with an attitude like that, why even try?"

"I'm _not-_ " Eddie stumbled over his own words, flustered. "I only _meant-_ "

Another Ravenclaw, Mandy Brocklehurst, defended him, "Well, it's not a good argument, but it is a good point. Regardless what Granger says, this organization is only recognized by the school, not the Ministry."

"It doesn't have to be _recognized_ by anyone," Terry countered, twisting in his seat to look back at her. "You don't have to be considered _valid_ to protest."

"How is that supposed to change anything-?"

"Do you think any government 'recognizes' the validity of a mass strike in order for it to work?" he shot back. "Of course not. People gather and they cause enough of a disruption to _force_ everyone to listen to what they have to say. And that's what I think we should do." He whirled around to face Hermione again, earnest. "We need to start a mass strike with the entirety of the student body: Boycott class, detention, curfews, _everything_ until the Ministry is _forced_ to do something about it-"

Ann was nodding her head, looking ready to say something, but several voices beat her to it.

"What, so you want us to act like the Slytherins?" Fay questioned, tone sardonic. "Because that's not exactly working out for them-"

"All that will do is ruin our grades," Eddie anxiously pointed out. "I'm not going to fail my N.E.W.T.s-"

Megan added her opinion to the fray, her hands timed with her words. "But, ehm, don't we want people to think we are nice…?"

"Activism is all about sacrifice," Terry interjected. "You don't change things through ineffective, pathetic actions. You can't just 'ask nicely.' You have to make a real impact. You have to rankle and bother people. You see this if you look at _any_ successful activist movement."

"You don't have to be disruptive to change people's minds," Justin disagreed, his tone venturing toward frustration.

Terry's scowl was pronounced. "If you aren't willing to _inconvenience_ yourself for the cause, then the cause clearly isn't very important to you."

This pronouncement instantly turned most of the Hufflepuffs against him, their expressions openly disapproving. Hannah Abbott spoke up, "You won't get more people to like you by acting like you're above them."

"Activism isn't about making people like you," piped up a younger Slytherin girl, seated far away from the other Slytherins. "That's what Rhys told us."

"He's right, too," Terry concurred. "Civil disobedience isn't a popularity contest. It's a public act of defiance against the status quo."

"It will alienate people, not bring them together!" Fay protested. "How are we supposed to teach people to respect Muggleborns when all we're doing is spitting in their faces?"

"Isn't that what they're doing to us already?"

"We can't act like barbarians-"

"Striking _isn't_ barbaric-"

"- shouldn't we talk about-"

"- more to it than _that._ "

"You're a fool if you think-"

"- what our parents would-"

The 'conversation' was growing very hard to follow, if it could be called that at all. Everyone was talking at once, voices weaving and tangling around until they had formed an immense knot of tension, poised to snap. From all corners were furrowed brows, restless fidgets, and impatient stares.

Harry was not immune to the combative atmosphere. He badly wanted to speak, but did not want to disappoint Hermione by acting rashly - he'd done enough damage in that regard. Still, it was the last meeting all over again; she appeared on the verge of panic once more.

He watched as her mouth opened and closed, hapless, before a sharp sound pierced the air from behind her, loud and startling enough to silence the room.

The familiar noise drew an unsettling response from Harry; he froze up and sat back in his seat. A few, like Hermione, visibly flinched. Others jerked their heads in the direction of the source.

Tenenbaum rolled up beside Hermione, pinched fingers dropping from her lips. Every student's attention was directed her way, the room falling starkly silent in a manner that Harry could only describe as _trained_.

Nobody moved, and the professor's lips pursed. "Since you are all incapable of conducting yourselves civilly, I suppose we will have to set some ground rules. Miss Granger," her torso shifted to the right; she addressed the girl, but her eyes remained on the crowd. "If you could hand me my bag? Back here-" She swiped her thumb to the back of her wheelchair.

Hermione was quick to acquiesce; seconds later, she produced a small handbag from behind where the woman sat, passing it off with her lips pressed together in a firm line.

Immediately, Tenenbaum's entire arm delved into the contents, past the point where it seemed even possible for her to do so. _Wizardspace._ He heard the woman grunt a few times before she was pulling something long and flesh-colored from within.

What the thing was settled on them in a delay, but the realization was visceral. Many winced as they watched the professor hold up what appeared like a dismembered leg, casual as ever. A few of the younger students watched on in horror, their fear heightening as Tenenbaum lowered the limb down and pointed it in the direction of the crowd. "We'll do something Ren's mother taught me. The person holding Professor Tenenbaum's leg prosthetic is the only person who is allowed to talk. If you wish to be the next person who talks, you must raise your hand and ask for the prosthetic. No one is allowed to interrupt the person holding Professor Tenenbaum's leg. If you do, you will be kicked out."

A handful of students coughed out a few nervous laughs of disbelief before the professor's unflinching, mirthless expression quieted them.

"You're serious?" Ginny blurted, brow furrowing.

"Am I ever not serious, Miss Weasley?"

The girl didn't appear to know what to say to that, which was a first, if Harry had ever seen it. Even more bizarre was the next person to speak.

Ron had his hand up. "I'll have a go first."

Without hesitation, the woman tossed the limb across the room, just barely missing two Ravenclaws who ducked out of its path. Ron caught it effortlessly, those Keeper reflexes of his put to good use.

The redhead rested the leg foot-down, leaning on it with an arm as if it were a cane. "The way I see it, you lot are thinking _simple,_ " he began, conversational. "If you're too aggressive, you're a villain; if you're too nice, you're a pushover. But that's all a bit _narrow,_ isn't it? Who says you've got to be one or the other? Shouldn't it be down to timing, down to who you're talking to? No use taking a hard line with people who ought to be allies, and no use playing nice with purists. Breaking school rules is only going to turn the teachers against you, and shouldn't you want them on your side? This whole assembly becomes a lot more credible when you have the support of trusted academics."

He sat up straighter, eyeing the gathered group before making his final declaration: "Use your _bloody_ heads, and save the fight for the people who deserve it."

It was a long while before anyone even attempted to speak after Ron's pronouncement. No one seemed to know what to do with the leg situation and, although many appeared as if they wished to respond, no one was willing to risk the professor's reprimand by talking out of turn. Eventually, though, a hand rose: Parvati's, Harry quickly realized, and Ron shifted to hoist the leg over Harry's head as Parvati grasped it by the ankle, albeit with a grimace.

She let it rest in her lap, though it was clear she wasn't comfortable with it seated there. "I, uh. I just wanted to say that-" She sat straighter in her seat as she cleared her throat, evidently attempting to come to terms with the current circumstances. "That, ah-" Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes dropped to the limb splayed limp in her lap before a sigh erupted out of her. "Do we _really_ have to do it like this?"

"If you act like children, I'll treat you like children, Miss Patil," Tenenbaum uttered, casually leaning against the armrest of her wheelchair.

"But I mean-"

"This is all rather _undignified,_ " Ann complained, expression sour. "How are we supposed to have a proper conversation with that _disgusting_ thing lying about?"

"That would imply that you've been engaging in constructive conversation beforehand, Miss Rochford," Tenenbaum put in, disinterested, as her pronounced frown directed itself to the girl in question. "So either you will _debase_ yourself if you wish to disrupt again, or you will leave. Your choice."

The girl's glare was something to behold. Still, she evidently wasn't willing to go toe to toe with the professor, since she said nothing further. A hand went up in Harry's periphery; it was Hannah.

A quick Accio brought the fake leg sailing toward the gathered Hufflepuffs, and she barely caught it in time. Awkwardly grasping the ankle with both hands, Hannah started, "Ehm… this is very _odd,_ but… here we are." This was punctuated by a gusty sigh. "I came here to support all my friends who are Muggleborn. I came here because… I've seen how purebloods can treat their peers on the basis of their parentage. My _best_ friend has feared for his life for years because of it.

"I'm not a very bookish person, and my talents really have nothing to do with politics or anything of that sort," she admitted, "but I believe that Hermione has every right to take this seriously. The Ministry was attacked just a few months ago- that's not something to take lightly."

Eddie Carmichael took up the leg next. "I think we can all summarily agree that the situation is dire; no one is taking this _lightly._ The absence of hundreds of books is not lost on us. Ravenclaw has noticed for months that they were missing, but nobody's had anything to say about it, not even Professor Sinistra. This club is the only place we've found any answers, and the fact that the removal of these books was so secretive and heinously targeted toward Muggleborn literature is appalling. But-" Here, he paused, frowning. "We're _students._ I wrote my own parents about this, and they insisted that I trust in the school, that this purge was likely the result of inappropriate material, I was wasting time overreacting when I _should_ be studying and- well. I've _read_ some of those books before - there's nothing wrong with them! But we can't exactly make any arguments when we're unable to reference the text, and with so few members… we will be easy to dismiss."

Grasping the leg by the ankle, Terry pulled it from Eddie's lap into his. "You lot need to stop worrying about being dismissed. That's _inevitable._ When you're working against systemic discrimination, that's going to happen no matter what you do. There are always bad faith players attempting to downplay the message you're trying to send. The point is to send that message with the most impact that you can, because it _will_ reach the people you want to hear it. You'll recruit people who have been too scared to have a voice. Your movement will grow. Your voice will get louder. You cannot bog yourself down by worrying about whether or not people think you're _nice_ or if they won't take you _seriously._ You can't convince people who don't want to be convinced, and you have to expect that when you make an enemy out of the powerful, they're going to attempt to deride you no matter _what._ "

"I say if they want to be angry about it, _let them,_ " Ginny emphasized when the leg was passed her way. "Any student or teacher who doesn't think this message is more valuable than keeping curfew- I wouldn't want an ally of them anyway."

"Just because someone is straight-laced, that doesn't make them pureblood sympathizers," Justin pointed out on his turn. "Plenty of people will respond to a more measured approach, if you'll let them."

Terry gripped the calf of the leg again, though didn't attempt to bring it any closer to himself. "No one was accusing anyone of being a purist. The point is that you get too into the weeds about being seen as respectable, you're never going to get anywhere, because you're going to be too afraid to do anything lest you put someone off. You need to accept that people are going to be put off _no matter what you do._ When you view it that way, you're much more free to actually be pragmatic. End of."

The prosthetic floated limply in the direction of that young Slytherin girl again, who spoke the second her fingers gripped the toes. "He's right, I think, but isn't there a happy middle? Protests don't just have to be demonstrations; Rhys gave a lot of examples, but I forgot what he called it? I just know that you can do stuff like community outreach or food drives or… stuff like that." The weight of the surrounding stares appeared to settle on her, and she faltered, "But… maybe that won't work here- I... I don't know."

One of the Carrow twins - Harry couldn't say which - separated from Ann's group to pluck the leg from the girl's grasp. Quiet and precise, the girl carried the thing with a strange air of grace, despite having an otherwise plain appearance. Expressionless, she returned to offer the thing up to Ann, who laid a disdainful finger at the center of it. "I just want to say that everyone's had such _marvellous_ input, truly," she began, effusive in a way Harry found distinctly off-putting. "But why don't we establish a plan of action, hm? Combine our efforts to a proper goal?"

Ginny's hand shot up, but Ann offered her a thin smile, shaking her head. "I haven't _finished_ yet," she stated, sliding her ponytail off her shoulder. "I propose an event that satisfies everyone's concerns- Something _big,_ something visible and unable to be ignored. Something accessible to all, but suited to making a statement. Something that will catch _attention_ without catching too much _controversy._ "

At that, she paused. The room was quiet with anticipation. "I propose… We host a ball!"

Terry's objection was immediate. "That's just _stupid_ -"

"I will _thank_ you not to speak out of turn," Ann chastised him, the curl of her lips a touch too smug for Harry's liking. "I think this is an ideal way to engage the rest of the school, a way to drum up support. Now, what do you think?"

Harry felt inclined to disagree on principle alone, his dislike intensifying by the moment, and Ron groaned quietly beside him, " _Another one?_ "

Megan took hold of the prosthetic, her excitement such that it bounced in her arms the whole time she was speaking. "Wow! That's such an _amazing_ idea! Maybe we could have Muggle food and music? Or- or maybe we could sell Muggle sweets to raise money to replace the books? Oh! We'd need a theme, wouldn't we-?"

"No."

Harry's head swiveled in the direction of Hermione's voice, surprised to even hear it. Her expression was stoic, the slight narrow of her stare cast to where Ann was sitting.

Megan fumbled. "I, uh, have the, uhm-"

"You're derailing again, Rochford. No."

Ann's reaction was subdued, but self-satisfied. With a languid blink, she primly glanced between Hermoine and the professor for a protracted moment before she spoke, voice airy. "Sorry, I'm not exactly sure if I'm _allowed_ to speak right now-"

The professor had taken up a bored demeanor, staring at her hands as she picked at something under her nails. "Superiors live by a different ruleset," she remarked. "You should know that, Miss Rochford."

"I'm sorry, are you saying _I_ am or if _she-_ "

Ann was immediately quieted by the professor's stare, but nonetheless undeterred; with a genteel affectation, she raised her hand in the air. Megan was eager to give up the spotlight, handing the leg back to the Slytherins hastily. With an expression of distaste, Ann touched her friend's arm as the girl held the leg in her lap.

"Miss Granger," she began, simpering. " _Hermione_ \- I find your attitude toward me quite unreasonable."

"I find your constant need to disrupt incredibly troubling," Hermione countered. "This isn't a social club. I was _very_ clear about this organization's goals."

"Yes, we all heard," Ann remarked. "And since no one has put forth any proper ideas, I decided to _contribute._ "

"Then your motion has been heard and summarily denied," Hermione tried.

"So, you won't even consider the possibility? An event like this could be immensely beneficial to your cause."

"Or it could be a complete and useless distraction."

"You could say that about anything," Ann pointed out. "It _almost_ seems like you just don't like the idea because you don't like _me._ "

Hermione scowled. "I don't like the idea because it's a bad idea."

"Is that so?" Her stare was critical. "You've hardly considered it at all."

"It's really not that difficult of a thing to assess," Hermione challenged. "Need I remind you that most of these books are irreplaceable? So even if you were angling around a fundraiser idea, it won't help. Not to mention that even if you _could_ replace the books, the underlying issue is the problem here; the fact that there was an organized, _administrative,_ effort to ban content written by, about and for Muggleborns. Issues that were not even remotely addressed in your proposal."

"If you want anyone to care about _any_ of that," Ann countered, haughty, "you'll need to package it in a way that holds their _interest._ Who are you even targeting? The _entire_ Ministry? That's simply not palatable to a wide audience, especially when half the school has family and friends who work there. And if your opposition _is_ more narrow, then how much clearer will your rallying cry be when all the school is gathered together in one room, awaiting _your_ word?"

Despite herself, Hermione appeared quite flustered. "It's not that _simple_ -"

By then, Terry had crossed the room, placing his hand on the calf of the leg as he hovered over the Carrow twin's shoulder. "She's… actually not wrong, after framing it like that," he pointed out. His smile was apologetic as he glanced between the face hovering near his and Hermone's, who was staring down at him in shock. "Sorry, I just- I need to point out that this could actually be a good recruitment strategy. So long as the event was _really_ focused on the issues and acting as a sort of meet and greet between the student body and the organization. You could see a spike in membership."

"It could also out the bad blood between us and the people who quit after the first meeting," Justin supplied in a quiet voice, nervously glancing at the professor in expectation of a reprimand. She looked mildly displeased, but said nothing.

" _Exactly,_ " Ann corroborated. "I mean, if the attending members of your own organization were confused about the purpose of it, then imagine how many _others_ are fully in the dark?"

Hermione was clearly losing footing here, but still attempted to object. "But-"

"It's worth a shot," Terry offered, diplomatic. "After all, it's one event. There doesn't appear to be a major downside."

" _Yet,_ " Ginny's harsh whisper hovered nearby.

Fay raised her hand, a quick _Accio_ bringing the prosthetic into her outstretched arms. "The idea has _potential_ to do some good, but it would require some careful planning to pull off properly."

Scarlet nodded, hand nestled on top of Fay's. "It could really serve as a united front, too. So long as we're clear on the intended message, we could see this as an opportunity for Muggleborns and Purebloods to really get together and maybe even come to an understanding."

"I don't know," Hannah fretted on her turn. "Just seems off the mark. Frivolous."

One of Ann's friends, Tracey Davis, spoke up, grasping the leg with an irritated air. "That is _not_ true! _You_ are just-!"

"Let's not let our tempers get away with us," Ann silenced her, taking charge once more. "I'm sure all viewpoints are welcome here; aren't they, _Hermione?_ "

It was truly disheartening to see how nervous Hermione was becoming by the second. At Ann's prompting, his friend's eyes swept through the crowd, the previous strength from her voice completely gone. "We're completely losing track of the point-"

"Are we?" the Slytherin girl questioned, the tilt of her head purposeful. "It seems there is a good deal of support for my proposal, which clearly stands on its own merit. Will you insist on ignoring it further?"

He watched as Hermione inhaled sharply, eyes widening. "I-"

"Perhaps it would ease your mind to offer it up to a vote?" Ann suggested, diplomatic. "After all, to do anything else would be positively _authoritarian,_ as my father would tell it."

Harry watched as Ginny practically _vaulted_ over her seat to snatch the leg away from Hannah. She crossed the gap between herself and Ann in seconds. " _Don't_ call Hermione that." It dawned on him quickly that - judging by how she was holding the leg - she hadn't grabbed it for the sake of being allowed to speak; it was tightly gripped in both hands, ready to swing. Ready to knock Ann's pretty little head off her prim shoulders.

The girl in question merely raised an eyebrow at her. "I didn't _call_ her it; I just said denying a vote _would_ be authoritarian. Something that _Hermione_ would never do, of course. Because you just aren't like that, are you, _Hermione?_ "

He could feel the pressure closing in on her from where he was seated. Felt the awful weight of it as if it was equally rested on his own shoulders; saw its effects as it proceeded to crush his best friend right before his eyes. It was a wonder that Hermione was still standing there at all, staring apprehensively into Ann's passive, simpering expression. Tension charged the brief pause with energy.

There was no cause for him to be so surprised; he could see plain as day the corner she'd been backed into. But still, when Hermione spoke the only words she was _allowed,_ it hit him square in the chest, leaving him breathless: "We'll vote."

"Alright, let's do that," Ann breathed, as if she were agreeing to someone else's suggestion and not her own. "A show of hands, everyone? All for the school event proposal?"

Harry watched as several hands went up. Justin, Terry, Eddie, Megan, Fay and Scarlet. Of course, all of Ann's followers obediently voted for her, but others were more surprising: Most of the Ravenclaws were in support, while the majority of Hufflepuffs were not. However, the former was decidedly more numerous, causing Harry to cast a worried glance at Ron.

Ann, who had not raised her hand to vote, prompted again, "And all those opposed?"

Harry cast in his support with a hand held high. Ginny, Parvati, Katie, and a few younger Gryffindors all followed suit, as well as Ernie, Hannah, Mandy, and a large swath of the gathered Hufflepuffs.

He didn't notice the problem brewing beside him at first, but a sharp thump to his right turned his attention to an exchange between Ginny and Ron. "What are you _doing?_ " she hissed at him, irate. " _Raise your hand,_ you daft arsehole!"

"Why should I? I don't have an _opinion_ about this; I'm just here for Hermione-"

" _Then support her!_ " she ordered through clenched teeth. " _Now!_ "

Anxious, Harry urgently nudged his friend. Ron shot him a half-hearted glare, but finally lifted his hand, despite looking displeased about it. Ginny just stared at them both, still visibly upset.

Despite their efforts, it was clear that Ann had mustered the support of the majority. Still, the girl made a show of counting the dissenters. "... Eleven and… twelve! That will be seventeen to twelve, then," she remarked, satisfaction evident in her tone. "I suppose the motion passes, after all."

The barb didn't have the intended effect; Hermione was so deflated that she didn't seem to have the energy to muster an argument. As Ann continued on, head held high while her companions flanked her on either side, a pit formed in Harry's stomach. The excited murmur of the girl's supporters discussing amongst themselves grew louder, a clear end to the meeting having been delineated not by Hermione, but by Ann. In the midst of it all, Harry held on to one singular hope: that Tenenbaum would put a stop to this. That she would cut in one last time to set things right, to give Hermione another chance.

But in the ruckus and deluge of voices, Harry noticed an isolated exchange.

"Miss Granger?" He saw Professor Tenenbaum staring at her, eyebrow raised.

Hermione seemed to understand what hadn't been asked; her eyes widened as her head shook, frantic.

The woman's expression relaxed, though remained skeptical. "Are you sure?"

Harry's chest was heavy as he watched his best friend glance toward the gathered crowd, before she shifted back to the professor. Her eyes fell to the floor and, underpinned by the sharp, tinny laughter of Ann nearby, sank her head in a dispirited nod.


	14. Trauma

Happy 2020 everyone! This took forever and I apologize! Finals, holidays, preparation for surgery have delayed the writing process time and time again! But here we are for another monster of a chapter, 19k words. ahhhh. Hopefully the next update won't take this long. We love you all!

For chapter images and faster updates, check us out on AO3!

Coming Soon - Chapter 15: Listless

••••••••••

There was the matter of Penny Arkwright.

Finding her had been a veritable Hail Mary, or it had certainly felt as such, considering how little she knew of her mother's friends. At least the process had been simple enough: After making contact with Concordia's Headquarters in London and, after explaining their situation, the staff had readily agreed to make inquiries on their behalf using the list of people her father had provided.

No promises were made.

It was three agonizing days before they were contacted again: Holly was staying with a woman named Penny Arkwright, who by all accounts valued her privacy, and Cleo was told she would ring soon using the phone number she'd left behind.

But "soon" has been perhaps too optimistic a descriptor; a full sixteen hours had passed since the initial call. In the interim, Cleo had kept as busy as possible: her room was cleaned and ordered (twice), the bathroom was scrubbed raw, the books were alphabetized and magazines were stacked neatly, the tablecloth was cleared of debris, bins were emptied, floors were swept, blankets were folded, plants watered, dishes cleaned, shelves dusted, rugs beaten-

Cal had witnessed all this with bemused patience, content to regale her with a running commentary of nonsense. But neither the chores nor the affability of her friend had done much to calm her nerves. Before long, she was laid up on the kitchen floor, legs propped over top a nearby counter, chemistry text abandoned beside her, and hard glare affixed to the mounted phone on the wall opposite.

It was amazing how, with a word, she could conjure fire into existence, but couldn't will a phone into ringing.

"Oi, when's old Sour Grape Snape coming, again?" Cal addressed her from where he was laying across her father's favorite chair, his legs flung over the armrest and the box of pizza they'd ordered hours ago balanced on his knees.

"He's dropping by after his afternoon classes," her voice rose up from the hardwood.

His head drooped to the side, facing her. "Remind me why he's part of this at all?"

"Does it matter?"

"Sort of?" Cal shrugged. "I mean… As your friend and moral support, I'm contractually obligated to tell you that Snape is neither friendly, nor morally supportive."

Her eyes closed. "Okay."

She heard the wan smile in his voice. "Just so long as you know that, I've done my due diligence."

A soft sigh shuffled out of her nose. "Thanks."

"Any time, Captain."

"Mhmm."

"Hey?" There was a rustle, followed by the sound of his boots meeting the floor. "How are you feeling? It can't be comfortable down there."

"Same as before," was her wearied answer, the sound of her voice rubbing against her eyelids as it passed. "Like I'm going to puke and pass out at the same time."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Do you know a spell to skip forward in time?"

" _Merlin,_ I wish," he lamented, stretching his arms over his head. Then, he paused. "Um. Maybe this isn't a good time, but-" Cal frowned. "Are you still angry about me barging in and having a go at Snape before?"

"Are you going to be panicky if I say yes?"

"I'm not _panicky,_ " was his good-natured grouse. "I'll just- _mope around._ Y'know. As you do."

"It wasn't how I wanted to tell him, you know," she criticized. "I didn't really want to be forced into the position of telling him my sob story about nearly dying in childbirth." Her head tilted backwards to look at him, upside down. "He thought I was an idiot."

"If that's what he thought, then you'd think he wouldn't agree to advise you, hm?" he pointed out, casual.

"They're not mutually exclusive, Cal."

She could practically _feel_ him making a face across the room. "But honestly Cleo, you should have heard yourself- just… giving up your dreams on account of _Snape,_ of all people-"

"I wasn't _giving up_ on my dreams," she scoffed. "I can literally become an obstetrician in the non-magical world. It wouldn't be a loss. Just an adjustment."

"But it _would_ be a loss: a loss to the whole of _Wizarding Britain!_ " was his vehement proclamation. Cal hunched over his legs toward her, planting his chin in his hand. "Though I completely understand if you think we don't deserve you. Because, well- have you seen us? We're a bit of a mess."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, isn't it just lucky for everyone that I'm still here?"

"A divine gift, indeed," he said with mock-solemnity. "But, um. So. Are we…?" He waved a vague hand. "... Okay?"

"I wouldn't have called you over if we weren't."

"True enough, I suppose." The pizza box slid to the floor as he fidgeted. "Just figured I'd ask."

Her eyes closed as she settled back into place. "Pick that up, please."

She could hear the smile in his words as he teased, "What? Thought you'd be _happy_ to have something else to clean."

"Get on my bad side and I'll never buy you a pizza again," she warned.

His gasp could rival a thespian's. "Clyde, _no!_ You can't introduce me to the miracle of pizza and then steal it away! Have _mercy-!_ "

A short series of knocks, clear and succinct, interrupted him. His brow furrowed in the direction of the door. "Is that-?"

Cleo grunted as she sat up. "Yeah, probably Snape."

Cal whipped around to face her, a breathy laugh escaping him. " _Snape?_ " he inquired, mirth suffusing his tone. "Knocking, like a _normal_ person? I can't even imagine it! I expect him to burst through the door and startle everyone, like in Potions, or- I don't know, fly in through the window on a carpet of smoke, surrounded by ravens-!"

She shot him a look as she approached the door, pulling at the latch. A blast of cold air rushed into the house when she opened it.

He had all the appearance of dread, even standing there in casual slacks and black turtleneck. It was odd how his robes had ingratiated themselves into his person, giving the impression of being part of his silhouette even though they were entirely absent.

"Professor."

"Miss Croft." The neutrality of Snape's attitude soured when his gaze fell on Cal. "Mr. Dedrick."

Cal performed an awkward, curt little bow from where he was seated. " _Mr._ Snape," he addressed the man with an air of pompousness. "A _pleasure,_ as always."

The professor's bland stare moved back to Cleo. "Have you heard from Concordia?"

She rubbed the butt of her palm over an eye socket. "Yeah, yesterday."

"I assume the news was unfavorable."

"No, not at all," she asserted, standing aside so he could enter. "They confirmed and gave me the name."

He raised an eyebrow as he stepped across the threshold. "But?"

"No address," Cal butt in.

"I'm still waiting to hear back from her," Cleo added.

"I see," Snape intoned, keeping quite still in the center of the sitting room. His posture was in direct contrast to Cal, who was now lounging with his feet on the coffee table munching on a bag of crisps that had come with the pizza.

"Been waiting for quite a while," he remarked ahead of a wide yawn. When Snape only stared at him, openly disapproving, a smile briefly curled Cal's lips. "What? You want some?" He waved the bag in Snape's direction.

Cleo scowled. "Cal."

"They're _cheese and onion_ flavored," he expounded with a persuasive shake of the bag, as if that was somehow a relevant selling point.

" _Cal._ "

There was an unflinching impishness about him when he replied, " _Yes?_ "

She turned suddenly to the older man, brute-forcing a change in subject. "It might be a bit until she calls. I'm sorry about that. But I appreciate your willingness to be here."

"It is nothing," he said, surveying the rest of the room briefly. "Is your father at home?"

She shook her head. "No, sorry. He couldn't get more time off work."

His acknowledgement was only a brief nod. They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment, the only sound in the room Cal's bag of crisps. The boy in question was watching them both with rapt attention.

"Quick question," he piped up, "were you planning to sit down any time this century? The chairs won't bite your arse, you know."

The man's sneer was undercut but the sudden shrill of Cleo's voice. "Cal, _seriously?_ "

He raised his eyebrows and his hands simultaneously. "Well it's all a bit _awkward,_ isn't it?"

"Stop it."

"Oh, _please-_ "

"I _mean_ it."

Cal shrugged, kicking up his legs before he stood, the crisp bag rolling up in midair with a magical flourish. "Fine, fine, have it your way," he sighed, crossing to the cupboard to toss them in. "I'm off to the loo."

When she heard the door close in the hallway, she sighed. "I'm sorry about him."

Snape's expression was inscrutable, but he only said, "Have you a place suitable for writing?"

"Uhm, yes-" She stepped away from him, gesturing toward the kitchen. "The dining table, if that's alright…?"

Rather than replying, Snape promptly moved across the room, settling himself at one end much like he would during class time. From a pocket, he pulled out what appeared to be a marble paperweight, oval-shaped and weighty, if the clopping sound it made when he placed it on the table was anything to go by. With a tap from his wand, the stone unfurled into a fan of parchments. Quizzes, looked like.

What he likely wanted was to be left alone. So when she spoke, she bit through the tail end of her words with a grimace, knowing it was a mistake. "Paper into stone, huh? That's, uhm, useful-"

"For travel, yes," he remarked, conjuring an inkpot and quill, which oddly complemented the aggressively floral tablecloth. Then, unexpectedly chatty, he quipped, "Some are better off remaining transfigured, but it is still my duty to assign a grade to them."

Surprised by his candor, she ventured, "What year are they for?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "N.E.W.T. level."

"Is it still _that_ bad? This far into the year?"

"These are advanced concepts, Miss Croft," he told her, dipping his quill. "Not all are up to the task."

"This class is more specialized with regard to people's future careers," she pointed out. "At least _some_ of them have to be taking it seriously?"

Snape looked at her, then. "It is not 'seriousness' which dictates success."

She squinted. "Success isn't the only factor. They're just supposed to be able to understand the material."

"Your performance is sufficient, Miss Croft," was his pointed reply. "You need not trouble yourself on that front."

"I- _wasn't._ " She blinked. "I know I'm doing well."

A hint of amusement twitched into his expression. "Good. Modesty is unbecoming on you."

Her bewilderment was plain on her face, taken aback by his comment. "I, uhm- was wondering about Harry, actually."

She didn't realize how relaxed his expression had become until a sudden downturn in mood pulled it dour. "And why should he be any of your concern?"

She shifted against the threshold of the kitchen. "Because I like to hope that maybe my tutoring is helping improve his performance some?"

"I see." He turned his gaze back to his quill, scratching something on the page in red ink. "I will admit to some _progression_ in his brewing strategy," Snape intoned grudgingly. "His _attitude,_ on the other hand, still leaves much to be desired."

"Well, maybe that wouldn't be much of an issue if you didn't try to _provoke_ him so much-"

"I expect my students to have a minimum level of competency, Miss Croft," he cut across her. "Noble as your efforts are, the N.E.W.T. level class is not the time for Mr. Potter to be learning _fundamental_ skills he ought to have learned years hence."

"Well it's not for a lack of desire to learn," she argued. "He tries _really_ hard with me. Just the other week I had him do a Headache Draught completely on his own and it was _good._ Genuinely _good_ and-"

"Be that as it may," Snape retorted, "that work ethic has no staying power in my classroom. An inability to perform under pressure is unlikely to recommend him to the Auror program."

"Maybe not," she conceded, going to sit in the chair near his. "But-"

"Potter does not belong." His stare was direct. "And amongst students like you who have worked themselves to the bone and _earned_ their place, he is merely a parasite. A single ounce of effort at the eleventh hour is hardly going to sway me in his favor, Miss Croft."

Her frown grew more pronounced. "That's _really_ harsh."

He leaned back as if he'd only just realized how far forward he'd crouched over the table. "I do not take kindly to those who _buy_ their way into my classroom."

Her posture straightened. "And yet you agreed to the transaction."

Dangerous ground, she realized belatedly. Snape's glower said as much. " _Quite._ "

Without knowing, she'd stumbled upon the precipice of something delicate. Looking at him, it was obvious. His glare was a challenge. _Push me again._ _See what happens._

And she didn't know if Harry Potter was worth messing up what she had, whatever it was, with Severus Snape.

Her limbs loosened as she stepped away; the first breath she took tasted strange.

"I miss work," she diverted.

His posture didn't exactly change, but the air about him seemed to unwind, his gaze returning to the page in front of him. "I suspect you will be returning to it soon," was his neutral reply.

"I don't know how you're going to convince me to leave again when I get Gabriel back." A horrendously honest thought, when she considered it. But she'd been preoccupied by it for days now.

Despite the strained moment they'd just shared, there was a touch of levity to his tone when he mentioned, "Your sentiments are conflicting, Miss Croft."

"Yeah," she agreed. "You can see why this dilemma existed in the first place."

Snape paused, and Cleo could see beyond that raised eyebrow of his that he was formulating a reply. But, before it could find voice, Cal burst onto the scene holding aloft a hollow cylinder, the prismatic swirls of color in the glass catching the afternoon sunlight from the window. "What _is_ this?" he questioned Cleo directly, enthused. "It looks wicked!"

Her face slammed into the palm of her hand as she leaned forward on the table. "Please put that back where you found it."

"What?" His smile was bemused. "Is it something important?"

"It's my mum's?" she replied after she uncovered her face, her arms plummeting to the table with an unseemly thump. "And it's not supposed to be out in the house. So will you please put it back?"

"Ooh, _mysterious,_ " Cal replied with a waggle of his eyebrows. He was gripping the thing strangely, holding it upside down so the bowl of it was at the top, before turning it over. "Is it… some kind of… beaker?"

The nod she offered him was curt. "Yep, got it. Put it back now."

The look he shot her was full of skepticism. "C'mon, you know I'm not that easy," he oozed, beaming.

"Why do you want to know so badly?"

He looked inside as if the thing was a microscope, peering at Cleo through the glass with his one open eye and shrugging. "Because it's interesting?" he replied, as if that were explanation enough. Knowing him, it probably was.

"It's something she uses for rituals, okay?" she offered with a disapproving scowl.

Cal's face scrunched and he expelled a short cough. "It smells _wild._ "

"Can you just go put it back in her room, please?"

"But Clyde! _Seriously,_ I have to know what this does-"

" _No_ you don't-"

Cal's grin only grew wider, twirling the rainbow-colored object in his hands. "The more you _protest,_ the more _curious-_ "

"It is an apparatus used for the consumption of cannabis," Snape remarked with no small amount of irritation. "Now cease this _tedious_ back and forth, and return it to its place."

She didn't know what was worse, the knowledge that Snape understood what a bong was, or hearing the way this fact tumbled from his mouth, horrendously unrestrained.

Cal, on the other hand, looked enraptured. " _Really?!_ But it's so-! I mean, I've heard of it, sure, but- How does it _work?_ Is there…?" he trailed off, talking over himself several times as he peered closely at the glass.

His excitement was hardly catching; Snape looked quite severe. "You _are_ aware it is highly illegal and dangerous."

 _Dangerous_ was overselling it a bit, but -

"I'm not showing you how to smoke weed," she objected tiredly. "Put it back."

Cal looked between them for a moment, as if he were assessing their resolve, but then rolled his eyes. "The both of you are no fun at all, you know," he informed them, matter-of-fact. Then, with an excess of pomp and circumstance, he made a show of finally, _finally,_ turning back down the hall.

With him gone, however briefly, the professor asked her point-blank, "Why is that fool here?"

 _Because he's my best friend._

That's what she should have said.

Instead, some measure of shame weighed her down as she looked at the man and confessed, "I don't know."

Snape did not directly reply, but the look he gave her clearly expressed his dissatisfaction with that answer. Cal emerged once more, plopping himself down at the table beside them and eyeing Snape's stack of papers boredly, ignorant of the exchange.

His head popped back up as if it were spring-loaded. "Oh! I almost forgot- My mum gave me some stuff for you." Cal abandoned his seat to retrieve his satchel from the sofa before returning to rifle around in it.

"She's got it in her head to get rid of a whole heap of things she's kept around after Dad-" At that, his expression twitched, eyes flicking briefly in Snape's direction before he continued: "Well anyway… Here-"

He dumped the whole lot on the table, apparently having given up on scavenging them individually. A cavalcade of fabric sprawled across the tabletop, but before she could get a good look she was distracted; from out of the folds of clothing a small, orange corn snake wriggled its way onto the tablecloth, its head performing an inquisitive wobble as its tongue flicked at the air.

"Er… oops," Cal laughed. "Forgot about that little habit of yours."

Cleo's eyes widened as she reared back in her chair. "What the _hell,_ Cal?!"

"What?" he parroted back, scooping up the snake. "I'll clean everything up, don't get your knickers in a twist-"

"That's not-" She paused and forced herself to take a breath. "You can't keep an animal in a bloody _bag,_ Caleb! You're going to _kill_ it-"

"It's fine!" he insisted. "She likes it in there."

"You're kidding, right?"

Cal glanced at her, his smile tipped sideways. "You can ask her yourself, if you like," he remarked, holding up the snake as if he were offering it to her. "Isn't that what you lot do in Slytherin? Commune with serpents? Endlessly plot the demise of your enemies? Hold dark rituals in the dormitories?"

His pause was more him attempting not to laugh and less his searching for a real answer. For her part, she was ready to give him one, anyway. About how _stupid_ that entire notion was, even for him.

But the phone shrieked nearby and Cleo passed him without hesitation. The receiver was to her lips in an instant. "Hello?"

"Good afternoon, ma'am. Could I take a moment of your time to discuss a new weight loss-"

The mounted box shook as she slammed the phone back into the cradle.

Both Snape and Cal were looking at her, the former with waning interest, and the latter with concern. "Who was it?" Cal asked, his tone subdued.

"Bloody sales call," she seethed.

"Oh." The snake coiled about his wrist.

Cleo's return to the table was emblematic of how finished she was with everything: When she slammed back down into her seat, she burrowed her forehead into the table, arms barricading around as her fingers furled into tight fists.

"Miss Croft," the professor prompted just above her head.

Her voice was nothing more than a soft grunt that dispersed across the chintzy tablecloth. "What?"

"Grade these."

When she looked up, she noticed that Snape had halved his stack of papers and placed them at her elbow.

"But-"

" _Now,_ if you please."

Cal, perched opposite, frowned at this exchange. Ready to protest, she could tell.

However, Cleo lifted her head, the movement almost mechanical, taking the extra quill Snape passed to her without hesitation. With a fluid brush of his knuckles, he pushed the inkwell closer to her before resuming his own work.

At the sight of her quiet compliance, Cal appeared to deflate. Looking between them one last time, he sighed before reaching over to sift through the pile. He picked up a few things to stuff back in his bag, most notably a large floral mug filled with dirt which had tipped over and spilled and a thin wooden flute with decorative carvings at one end. Then, half-standing, Cal deposited the snake into the bag as well before busying himself with sorting the rest of the items he'd unceremoniously scattered.

Several minutes passed in silence, each of them occupied with their own tasks. The test before her bore a name at the top she didn't recognize; she supposed it stood to reason that he wouldn't allow her to grade for her own peers.

And besides, there was quite a lot wrong.

 _I see what you're trying here, however you're misunderstanding how and why toad oil dissolves in honeywater. It's not the honeywater. As explained in the text, it's the Guar Gum that assists the breakdown of an oil like that in a substance like honeywater. If you like cooking, maybe look up what emulsifiers are? The concept is similar..._

Cal interrupted her writing. "If you don't want any of this stuff, it's fine," he mumbled. "Only took them on Mum's orders."

She barely looked up. "I got distracted by the snake."

"Her name's Ruby," he replied. "She belongs to my aunt, but likes to get in places where she's not wanted." Then, with a wry tilt of his head, he added, "Sort of like my aunt herself."

"Maybe you should let her crawl around," Cleo suggested. "I feel antsy with her being in the backpack."

"If I let her out entirely, we'll _never_ see her again," Cal pointed out, fretting. "And my aunt always keeps her in a bag when they travel- But, fine. If you insist, I'll hold her."

He pulled the little corn snake up by its middle, allowing her body to bunch up in both his outspread hands. The ginger hue of her scales shone softly in the light. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

Cal suddenly laughed. "Merlin, do you remember that time Noah let that joke snake loose at the Gryffindor table? And Ben nearly _shat_ himself, he was so scared?"

"Yep," Cleo muttered, poking the tip of her quill against the pad of her thumb. "Still dated him for three more months after that, regardless."

"I ought to have pegged the lout for a coward right then," he lamented. "But, ah well… You and I both were too mesmerized by his _poetry_ to notice."

" _You_ were mesmerized by his poetry," she corrected, purposefully ignoring the disdainful sniff that came from the professor next to her, who clearly didn't think much of their choice of topic. "Because you don't have taste."

"Ha! I'll have you know my tastes are simply too _elevated_ for a mere mortal like you to understand," he quipped, smiling. "And perhaps _you_ aren't as cut out for romancing artists as you'd like."

Her stare was more serious than she preferred. "Apparently not."

Caleb gave her a considering glance, shifting the undulating snake in his hands. "Sorry, I'm ah- being a bit obnoxious, aren't I?"

"It's not the first time I've poked fun at the most idiotic thing I've ever done," she excused, returning her attention to the quiz in front of her.

"I'm not just talking about that, you know."

She looked up again before diverting her gaze to the hodge-podge of baby items still littered haphazard on the table. "What'd you want to give to Gabriel? All of this?"

Cal nodded, responsive to the redirect. "Whatever catches your fancy. Everything else will probably be vanished, since Mum's determined to be rid of them."

"Don't Wizards have charity shops?" she asked. "Seems like a waste to vanish it all."

Cal shrugged, but it was Snape who answered succinctly, "Vanished items are not destroyed, but may be conjured again in whole or part."

"I don't know about charity shops, but I did learn as much in Transfiguration," her friend corroborated.

"Still seems just as inconvenient," Cleo remarked.

However, the blare of the phone ringing once more caused Cleo to jolt out of her seat before the other two could utter another word, the movement automatic. It took her all of a second to answer.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hi," a soft spoken, unassuming voice greeted on the other end of the line. "Sorry, is this Cleo? Cleo Croft?"

"Yes - is this Penny Arkwright?"

"Yes. I, uhm. I'm very sorry to get to you so late. I had to take time after my errands to come to Concordia so I could call you."

Cleo frowned into the mouthpiece. "You don't have a phone?"

"Not at my flat, no."

"It's just, uhm - my father remembered my mother calling you, and-"

"Oh, she did," Penny assured her. "I work part-time during the week here at Headquarters. She caught me on my shift."

"You work there?"

"Yes. Ah," Cleo could hear a soft sigh waft into her ear, muffled and distorted by the phone's echo. "I apologize. I didn't realize I was getting mixed up in a personal family matter. It's just, when your mum called, she was _quite_ distressed and-"

"It's fine," Cleo excused. "I understand. I'm grateful she's with a friend."

"Right. Thank you. I imagine you're worried about your child-"

"Is he okay?"

"Oh, absolutely; Gabriel has been an angel."

"I just- I'd very much like to see him and-"

"No, of course you would. I, ah- I would be happy to provide you with the address? Though, uhm, I understand you live with your parents, yes? In Brighton? Though Holly mentioned your term at Hogwarts-"

"Yeah, I'm in Brighton right now."

"Right, well, I live in London. Have you been?"

"I'm not sure I understand why that matters?"

"So you have a familiar place to Apparate to?"

"Oh, uhm. I don't know how to Apparate-"

"Well, I could come pick you up, or-"

"No, I have uhm, I have a means to get there. Just leave me with the address and I'll be there as soon as possible."

"Of course-"

"Uhm, hold on, let me grab something to write with-" Hoisting the phone against her shoulder, Cleo shifted toward one of the drawers and pulled a writing pad and pen from within. "Alright, whenever you're ready-"

Penny repeated the address twice as Cleo copied it down on the pad. She could hear the nervous smile in the woman's voice as she asked, "Need it again?"

"No, I got it," Cleo answered, turning toward the counter again. "Thank you."

"So I should expect you soon?"

"Yeah," Cleo breathed. "My mother - does she know I'm coming?"

"Yes," Penny said. "I talked to her when Concordia first contacted me. She was a bit skittish about the whole thing but I was able to convince her that it was a good idea to talk to you."

"Thank you."

"It's nothing," the woman dismissed. "I'll see you soon. Travel safely."

"Right. Thank you again. Bye."

The receiver had scarcely hit the cradle before she prompted, "Professor?"

She found two expectant gazes focused her way. The table was clear.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Shall we?"

••••••••••

Then, there was the matter of her mother.

The skittish waif edged on the sidelines, back against the wallpaper like she could melt into it. It hardly mattered whether she managed it or not; Cleo had other, more important claims to her attention.

Like the way her arms were correctly burdened; every inch of muscle contracted into herself and around him.

Like the two year old hyperventilating in her ear.

She knew around then that the difficulty wouldn't be in convincing her to leave, but rather to abandon this position.

Gabriel was going to force her, though. Toddlers couldn't stay in one place for long. She made a valiant effort against his squirms, though.

"Ma _ma._ "

"Two seconds," she promised.

Which was a mistake; he knew how to count.

"One, two!"

She corrected herself as she pressed a kiss against his temple. "A billion seconds."

"That _forever!_ "

Was that such a bad thing?

"Be nice to Mama," she groused. "I've missed you so much."

"Miss you too," the toddler confessed, his limbs going limp against her form.

Her lips went on another tirade of kisses; she tasted her tears in them. She felt as a clumsy, small hand brushed across the spots she'd marked and wiped them of all residue. His observation was a tender, bewildered, "Cry?"

Her head tilted back as she sniffed before she pressed her forehead against his. "Yeah, Bedbug."

"Sad?"

Her head shook. "No. Happy."

"Cry for _sad,_ though," he complained.

Her smile was nothing more than a twitch. "Maybe Mama's a little sad."

His head wobbled back as he took in a deep, syrupy breath. It cracked and bubbled in the back of his throat before his voice came up like a cough. "Why?"

Her body felt heavy all of a sudden. She didn't know how she stayed sitting upward. "Because I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"For being gone. That must have hurt."

"Mmmm," the boy hummed, preoccupied with his own hands. "Fell down," he explained. "At the… park. But it okay; Gammie kiss it."

"Yeah?"

His breath was harsh and he smiled through it. "Yeah!" he squeaked. His brow suddenly drew up as he looked at her, as if something was dawning on him for the first time. "Oh. Mama fall?"

She brushed his fringe from his forehead. "No, Mama didn't fall."

"Oh."

"Mama just…" She sighed. "Mama doesn't like being away from you."

The boy swallowed. "But," this word tumbled out heavy, his head sinking down with it. "Mama do good, so it okay."

"Mama do good?" she asked.

"Uh huh," the toddler confirmed as his hands picked at each other again. "Mama save babies."

Cleo blinked. "Who told you that?"

"Gammie," he told her, grinning. "Mama doctor. Mama do good, like, like-" His thoughts meandered off for a moment before his head jolted up, wide eyed and awestruck. "Like fire guys!"

She exhaled, half amused, half puzzled. "Fire guys?"

"Like my truck." He glanced over his shoulder as if he'd find it there and only looked back there when he fully realized it wasn't. "Red. Wee woo, wee woo!" His hands hoisted above his head as his mouth blared the alarm.

Cleo grasped his hands and pulled them in front of her. "Gammie didn't get it completely right. Mama isn't a doctor yet. But she's trying."

"Yeah, Gammie say," he concurred. "Work really hard. Mama work really hard."

Her eyes darted to the woman on the other side of the room; Holly's gaze dropped to her feet.

"But it's hard on you," Cleo continued as she looked at Gabriel again. "And that's why Mama's sorry."

"Yeah, but," his breath came out like a laugh as he wriggled back and forth on her lap, amused. "I have fun with- mmm, with Gammie 'nd Papa."

"Yeah?"

His nod was clumsy. "Yeah." He sucked in a wet breath again. "Miss Penny's _nice._ "

"She's very nice."

"She gave me ahhh," his head bobbed back, eyes cast to the ceiling. "Ahhh, a new truck."

"Did she?"

"Uh huh."

"Did you say thank you?"

He suddenly draped himself over Cleo's shoulder, attention directed behind her. "Thank you!"

Penny Arkwright was propped up in one corner of the room, watching the proceedings with quiet interest. Gentle curls framed her face, and her eyes were wide and doelike, both colored a light auburn. Strikingly beautiful and meek, Cleo's first impression of her was that she was quite small in both temperament and physical size; she hardly seemed to take up space, content to allow their family the room to reunite in peace.

Cleo watched as the woman's expression melted into a smile. "You're welcome, Gabriel."

His head swiveled to the other part of the living room, body jolting as he noticed the two men for the first time. His eyes widened before he looked at Cleo. "Who that?"

Cleo shifted sideways, adjusting Gabriel on her lap as she faced them. She pointed at the younger of the two. "That's Uncle Cal."

Her friend's smile was immediate and dazzling, though perhaps a bit wobbly with emotion. "Hey Gabe! Lovely to finally meet you!"

Gabriel opened and closed his mouth, though no direct answer was forthcoming. Cleo was quick to gesture to the professor. "And that's Mr. Snape."

The man inclined his head. "'Snape' alone is acceptable," was his quiet correction. It was the gentlest timbre she'd ever heard him use.

The boy watched him with interest. "What's 'ceptable?"

The professor's gaze flicked to her as if he expected her to say something. Judging by the silence that met her son's question, he was perhaps unsure how to answer.

She was quick to field it. "Means good, Bedbug."

"Oh." His eyes never left Snape's face. "Snape 'ceptable?"

The man's head bobbed into one of those curt nods he favored.

Gabriel's face swiveled to Cleo's, millimeters from hers. "Snape 'ceptable."

She nodded as well, though the action was much more dramatic. "Snape 'ceptable," she repeated, much softer, before leaning in to give him a hard kiss on the cheek. The toddler squealed loud enough to make the professor grimace.

It wasn't long before Gabriel was squirming in her lap again and, although Cleo was disinclined toward doing so, she allowed the boy to stand on his own two feet. Giggles interspersed with his loud breathing, he glanced between his mother and the adults in the room, before asking, "Ah, mm, Gammie?"

An involuntary shiver rippled across her shoulders when she heard her mother's voice for the first time. "Yes, sweetpea?"

"Can…" He took in a sharp breath, a little unstable on his legs as he wobbled, Cleo's hand on his back to keep him upright. "Ahhh, Gammie show Mama?"

"Hm?"

"Show Mama, ahhh-" The boy couldn't seem to find the words.

"Were you and Gammie doing something?" Cleo attempted.

"Oh," her mother breathed. "When he heard you were coming, he wanted to make something nice for you."

"Did you?" Cleo asked, her attention on Gabriel again.

"Yeah!" the boy exclaimed. "Make somefin' nice! For Mama!"

"Something nice for Mama!" she echoed, her voice resonating at a higher pitch as she pressed a kiss against his cheek, making the boy screech happily.

His hand at her wrist was insistent as he tugged. "I wanna show!"

And as much as she desired to allow him to lead the way, her eyes meandered toward the woman at the other end of the room and she paused. "Hey, Bedbug. I want to. But Mama has to talk to Gammie real quick first, is that okay?"

The boy blinked up at her, bewildered. "Talk?"

"Yeah," she breathed, quiet. "But after Gammie and Mama are done talking, you can show me what you made and _then_ \- you, Gammie, Uncle Caleb and me, we can go back home to see Papa, and then we can go somewhere nice, yeah?"

The boy's eyes brightened. "Really?"

"Of course," she cooed. "You miss Papa, don't you? He's missed you _a lot._ "

"Yeah," the boy squeaked. "Can… Can Mama- ahh, can we go park? 'Nd… get lady-" he breathed in deeply, "get ladybirds?"

She brushed her fingers across his brow. "Of course."

Her son's smile brightened the room by what felt like thousands of watts. "Yay!"

"And guess what, Bedbug?"

Gabriel's round eyes caught hers with wonder. "What?"

"You get to keep me for the rest of the week."

A sharp gasp pulled from the child's lungs. " _Really?_ "

"Really."

"Gammie!" the boy exclaimed, turning toward the woman. "I get Mama!"

For her part, her mother attempted to look enthused, despite the dread etched into her features. "You get Mama!"

"So Gammie talk to Mama," the boy concluded, wobbling in excited circles around the room. "So I get Mama! Okay?"

Cleo rose to stand. "Okay." The other woman muttered something affirming, but it sounded meek in comparison.

The boy looked between his mother and grandmother before they settled on Snape. Uncertain but gregarious, the boy waddled on two clumsy feet toward the man, one hand outstretched. "Show Snape?"

A line formed between the man's eyebrows, his expression otherwise frozen, completely unreadable. His thoughts could, perhaps, be surmised by his complete lack of reaction to a toddler crashing into his legs, grabbing fistfuls of his trousers.

The boy stood there for longer than was comfortable before Cal scooped him up in his arms, sweeping him toward the pile of toys nearby. "Oooh, what's that?!" he enthused, pointing to the miniature fire truck with such earnest fervor that she felt certain he actually didn't know the answer.

When Cleo turned, she sought Penny, who hadn't moved an inch from where she'd been originally. "Is there a place we could…?"

"My bedroom," the woman fielded, her voice almost melodic. "Down the hall, to the left."

"Thank you."

And although Holly appeared no more enthused to be corralled into such a position, she nonetheless dutifully followed behind when Cleo took the lead.

Penny's room was much like the rest of her flat: clean, minimal, and lightly mismatched. The birchwood furniture was contrasted by a pastel blue rug, the warm beige stripes on her pillows complemented cool grey sheets, a green reading lamp sat beside little charcoal-colored statuettes of unicorns and salamanders. The bed was pristinely made, the houseplant beside the window completely healthy, and the rug perfectly fluffed and spotless; the room hardly seemed lived in at all. Yet, on the end table, softly illuminated by a window perpendicular the bed, were a few moving photos of Penny and an older man whose features greatly resembled hers, both dressed immaculately and waving out of the frame.

The warmth of her surroundings chilled the second her mother closed the door behind her.

"Just get it over with," Holly accused immediately; she didn't have enough respect to look Cleo in the eye.

"Get what over with?"

"Telling me how much you hate me?" the woman continued, bewildered, as if Cleo had missed the obvious.

Cleo's lip jerked sideways as the recrimination flew past, caught her cheek like a slap. Her chief response was an incredulous snort until she watched her mother take a seat on the bed, uncomfortable, turning her head away. Her next was much more disbelieving, "Seriously?"

The woman had the gall to look _exhausted._ "Don't start, Clytemnestra."

"Don't-?" she balked, her breath kicking violently out of her. "You come out of the gate with some bullshit like that, and you tell _me_ not to start?"

"It's not bullshit," Holly mumbled, petulant.

"It is."

"It's _not,_ " she snapped. "You do. You hate me."

"Yeah, you got me, Holly," Cleo seethed, arms crossed. "I hate you _so much_ that I went through the effort of going about this in _every means possible_ as to not make things worse for _you._ I hate you so much that I begged Dad not to call the police. I took time off school to find you myself, recruiting total and complete fucking strangers that have better things to do than bother themselves with my problems. I kept thinking about how much I didn't want to exacerbate whatever the fuck you're going through, because _I hate you_ _so bloody much._ "

Her eyes darted, briefly, to Cleo's face before pinning themselves to the ceiling. "You called me Holly."

Her frustration was a force that drew her sideways, crossing to the other side of the room as her response collided with the hands that suddenly covered her face, "Jesus _Christ._ "

Her mother's laugh was embittered with an undeserved portion of irritation. "Yes, it must be _so hard-_ "

"It is, Holly! It _fucking_ is! And you know what? I didn't even _want_ to get angry at you. I really _did_ just want to talk to you!"

"Then talk."

Cleo's hands dropped to her sides with a loud _smack._ "How can I when the first thing you do is assume the worst of me? Position me like _I'm_ the bad guy?"

Holly's lips twisted, indignant. "Because _I'm_ meant to be the bad guy, right?"

"Holy fucking _shit._ "

"Thought so."

Cleo rapidly approached the bed; her mother's body pulled back and away on instinct. Cleo didn't know how to deal with the nausea that rose up noticing _that._ "Does this make you feel vindicated? Provoking me? Why do you want me to hate you?"

"I don't _want_ you to."

"Then what the fuck is this?"

The woman scowled as she looked away, shoulders lifting in a shrug.

Cleo grit her teeth. "You're not the victim."

Her eyes stayed staunchly diverted away. "Never am."

" _Stop it._ "

Her mother's jaw tightened. "I don't know what you want from me."

"I want you to take responsibility for what you did."

"I didn't _do_ anything."

Cleo's eyes narrowed. "You _kidnapped_ my kid."

Holly's face snapped to her. "I _removed_ my grandson from a hostile environment."

Cleo drew up, an exasperated breath bursting from her slanted mouth. "And _who_ made that environment hostile?"

The woman looked away again. "You know _exactly-_ "

"Don't say Dad."

"Clytemnestra-"

" _Don't._ "

The woman's smile was caustic, spelling her vexation across her features. "Can't say I'm surprised."

"Oh _come on-_ "

"You two always _did_ get on-"

" _Holly-_ "

"- nevermind how that made _me_ feel -"

" _Holly._ "

"- because who gives a _flying_ -"

 _"Mom!_ "

Holly's startled expression confronted her. The unexpected title had properly shut her up, but the silence did little to soothe Cleo's frayed nerves.

She ended up plopping next to where her mother was sitting on the bed, an exhale forced from her at the point of contact. She felt her mother's shoulders shift away from her before settling back again.

"What are we doing?" Said to the floor. To the hands in her lap. To the sigh that came as an answer to her question. When Cleo dared to look at her mother's profile, it wore a frown so heavy it threatened to weigh her down against the mattress.

"What are we doing?" she asked again.

And her mother sighed again.

"Do you want us to be finished?"

Finally, a word. "No."

"Then how do we fix this?"

"What's there to fix?" the woman put in, unhelpful. "I can't make you like me, Clytemnestra."

Cleo's expression drew up in disgust. "How can you say that?"

"It's the truth."

"That doesn't even remotely resemble the truth!"

Predictably, she sounded put upon. " _Okay,_ Clytemenstra."

"I _love_ you."

Her mother's lips pressed together, wobbly, before she grit out a soft, "I love you too."

" _No,_ like-" Cleo folded over, the butt of her palms digging into her eyes. "How do you not… Hear it? How does it not sink in for you?"

"Clytemnestra-"

"It's so _real_ to me. How do you not see that? It _kills_ me that you don't see it."

She felt her mother turn toward her. "What do you want me to say?"

Cleo sat up suddenly. "I don't know?" Her mother's face was a mix of distorted colors, obscured by dark fractals and artefacts glimmering across her vision. It barely cleared as she blinked. "I can't be upfront with you because you'll spiral. I can't be upset with you without you twisting it."

Her mother's lips curled, displeased, but Cleo cut her off with a sharp, " _No._ Listen to me-"

"I _am_ -"

"You can _fuck up_ and I'll still love you. You get that, right? Please tell me you get that."

She scoffed. " _Fuck up_ -"

"Yes, mom. Fuck up. You fuck up. You've fucked up a lot. The drugs, the arguments, the-"

Her mother's muscles tensed; she was ready to flee again, Cleo knew it. " _Right-_ "

"Just _listen!_ " Cleo shouted, loud enough for her to hear her voice shake the walls. "Because if you walk out that door right now, then it _is_ done. And I don't want that, Mom. I don't. But I will do it. I will make sure you never see me and you never see Gabriel again. I _fucking_ love you and I want to be here for you but I'm _not_ going to risk my kid for that. I don't want to choose. Don't _make_ me choose."

The threat landed well enough; Holly relaxed while still having the appearance of being tightly wound nonetheless.

The next movement was all impulse. Her legs pulled up on the bed as she turned to face her mother fully, hands gripping the sides of the woman's face as she pressed her forehead against hers. It wasn't until she felt her mother's breath waft against her face that she'd realized the tears were there, chilling against her cheeks, the sting in her eyes arriving on delay.

"My mother knows I deserve an apology."

"Does she."

Her eyes narrowed. "Yeah. She does."

Her mother's mouth pressed into a tight line.

"She knows I deserve to be treated better."

"Uh huh."

"She knows she's _better_ than this."

"Okay."

This was going nowhere fast.

Another angle, then. "I wish you knew you didn't have to do this alone."

Her mother's throat tightened when she swallowed, but she didn't move.

"Why did you start again?"

The woman's mouth was slack. "Start _what-_ "

"You know what."

Her mother's upper lip twitched.

"Did it come back?" Cleo pressed.

Holly's eyes closed.

"Did it?"

"It doesn't work like that, Clytemnestra," the woman finally said, her head drooping, applying more pressure against Cleo's forehead. "It never _left_ in the first place."

Cleo didn't mean for the wobble in her voice, but it was there. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell Dad?"

"What were you going to do about it?" The woman's eyes flickered up to hers. "Even if I told you, what would you do?"

The question stopped her dead. It was bothersome, how unrelentingly _reasonable_ she could sound at a moment's provocation. It was a good question. What _could_ she have done?

"Been there for you," was her paltry answer, floating between them, curtailed by a grimace.

Her mother's response was a soft hum.

"We could've talked about it, at least. Maybe Dad could have known you were at risk. Hide the pills-"

"And we would've fought," her mother countered. "Because I don't want you to hide the pills."

 _That_ felt like a punch in the gut. So much so that her next reply came out winded. " _Why?_ "

"Cleo-"

" _Why?_ Can't you answer that? Why do you want to keep doing this?"

Her mother's head slipped away, drooping to be cradled by her hands. Cleo's gripped her upper arms. "Mom?"

A response poured into her cupped hands, collected and hidden against her palms. Cleo leaned forward, cajoled her with another tender, "Mom?"

When the woman's face lifted again, she saw the words collected there with the tears. Her fingers curled inwards. "You have no idea how much it _hurts._ "

Cleo's thumbs swiped against the rough, speckled skin of her mother's shoulders. Impotent. Not even remotely as comforting as she wished. "Mom…"

"You have _no_ -"

But she didn't finish. Her face buried itself in her hands again, this time with a shake. Her hands held her sobs.

It felt like the halfway between a second and eternity when the weeping finally ebbed and the woman dropped her arms into her lap; her sobs broke through the levy and suffused into the air of the room, chilling it further, pulling Cleo down under its weight.

"What…" Cleo swallowed. "I just, I don't understand-"

"You wouldn't."

Cleo ignored that. "It's just-" she glanced away. "If it never goes- I mean. You were doing so _well_ before and I don't understand what…"

There was a pause as her hands dropped to grasp her mother's damp, tear stricken ones. She squeezed; they laid dead against hers. "... changed."

Her mother blinked, ushering a couple of tears to their death plummet against her jaw. "Does it matter?"

Cleo's head tilted as she tried to catch her mother's stare. "If it's causing you to relapse then, _yeah,_ I think it does."

The woman refused to look back, however. Her mouth slanted as she appeared to be considering something, her next answer a vague and cryptic, "I just know something."

"You know something," Cleo repeated.

"I know something."

"What do you know?"

Her lips rolled back against her teeth as she grit them; gating something painful, if her expression was anything to go by. Her silence continued as she found every place in the room to occupy her attention that _wasn't_ Cleo's expectant, unrelenting gaze. A few times, her mouth opened before closing a moment later, the hesitation drawing her back into the quiet.

But, eventually, her answer came, harsh enough to sound brute-forced. "He's dead."

"I-" Cleo's eyes trained on her in a squint. "He?"

" _He,_ " her mother emphasized, giving her a short, albeit meaningful, look, "is dead."

He-

"Oh, God." Cleo's brow furrowed. " _Him?_ "

Her mother's disheveled hair bounced as she nodded.

"But-" she sputtered. "How do you… How did you even _find out?_ How did you even- _Why_ did you even-"

"Does it matter?" her mother questioned again, though the words were heavier this time. A warning. "I just.. _know._ "

She didn't know how to respond. The news settled odd in her ears, awkward and unfamiliar. News that should have sounded weighty and grave appeared no more than casual and nonchalant. This was… it _should_ have meant something. And did.

Just in an unexpected way.

"Good," she concluded. " _Good._ Fuck him. I hope he's-" Her words were stopped short as she bit into them, expression contorting in fury.

Her mother's countenance nowhere near matched her fervor. She stared back, deadpan. Drained.

"Shouldn't…" Cleo faltered. "This is good, right? He's gone. He can't… y'know-"

Holly gazed at her silently. Cleo felt herself deflating.

"It's good, right?" she tried again.

"I don't know," was her mother's answer. "I thought- I… well, I don't _know_ what I- thought… I guess, and-"

Something twisted painfully in the pit of her stomach. "You don't… _miss_ him, right?"

" _No!_ " Her mother jerked toward her in a manner that was disjointed and ungainly, the whole of her so repulsed by the notion that her body contorted in an effort to purge the very _idea_ from herself. " _God._ No! _Never._ Jesus _Christ-_ "

"Sorry!" Cleo bleated, her body jolting in tandem, though in a compulsion to grapple the woman, to hold her. Holly flinched from the touch. "I'm _so_ sorry. Mom- _God._ I'm so sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry-"

"I _don't-_ " her mother stumbled, breathless, riding on a wave of panic. "I don't. _I don't._ He was my dad, and-"

She stilled, so sudden and completely that a tension sung across Cleo's muscles.

"He was my dad. " Said again. Different. Deeper.

"He was… my _dad_ _._ "

Softer. Broken. The words falling in shards from her wounded mouth.

Her mother shattered.

And Cleo collected the pieces in her arms.

Then, the sob-drenched guilt started flowing in earnest. A deluge from mouth to chest, senseless and panicked. "I'm _so_ sorry-"

"Mom…"

"- about Gabe. Ah-About _everything_ -"

"Mom-"

"- _Everything._ I- I don't mean to be… to be _this_ -"

"I know. It's okay-"

"- I don't _mean_ it! You have to _believe_ me -"

"I _do,_ listen-"

"- I love you _so much!_ You have _no idea_ -"

She squeezed her mother closer to her. " _B_ _reathe._ Please."

"You'll _never_ forgive me- and I don't even _blame_ you-"

"You're ridiculous," Cleo murmured, pressing a kiss against her mother's crown. "Of course I forgive you."

"I'm _so_ sorry, sweetheart. I'm _so_ sorry. I shouldn't have- I don't know what's _wrong_ with me-"

"You do," Cleo reminded her gently. "You _do_ know. And it's not your fault."

Her cries, carried on hot, damp breath, weaved themselves into the fabric of Cleo's clothes. Her pleas became more and more frantic. "I don't know why I- I don't know- I don't know what to _do-_ "

" _Listen-_ "

"How could _you_ ever- how could _he_ ever-"

"Calm down, _please-_ "

"I'm so _sick-_ and _nothing_ \- will ever- _nothing-_ "

Cleo ducked her head down as she lifted her mother's shoulders, allowing their foreheads to press together once more. She held her mother's eyes. "Nothing is too late. Calm down. Listen to me. The important part is that you're lucid. You're _lucid,_ Mom. And that means you can get help. Right?"

Her breath came in hiccups as she stammered a short, breathy, "Y-Yeah."

"And you don't have to do it alone. We can help you, together. All of us. As a family. Okay?"

Holly's breathing was stuttered. "Ye-yeah."

"I'm not ashamed of you. You got hurt and you still need to heal. There's no shame in that. And I can be proud of you, Mom, really - I can be proud that you're trying to heal."

Her voice sounded small when her reddened, puffy eyes regarded her with some small amount of dread. "You can…?"

Cleo cradled her mother's cheeks in her hands. "Of _course_ I can. You got this far, didn't you? All by yourself. And then you got clean for four whole years. Of course I can be proud of that."

A sound, halfway in between a laugh and a strangled sob, burst out of her mother's throat, brushing against her cheek like a caress.

"Mom- you," Cleo's expression tightened, suddenly overcome. "You're the strongest woman I know."

Holly's hands came up in turn to cradle Cleo's cheeks, reciprocal. Her thumbs gently pushed the hair away from her brow. "I don't deserve you."

The phrase didn't hold the sting of self deprecation or victimization; they lived in the warmth of awe and love that radiated behind her eyes, smoothing over Cleo's face like a balm. The woman leaned forward and pressed a kiss against her cheek. "I'm sorry, honey. About Gabriel. That must have hurt you something horrible. I'm so sorry."

Cleo's voice, suffused with emotion, threatening to break, pled, "Please don't ever do it again. _Please._ "

A frantic energy overtook her mother as she suddenly began to fret, pulling Cleo closer to her, pressing more kisses against her brow. " _Never._ God. I'm _so_ sorry-"

Cleo leaned in, draping her legs across her mother's lap, comforted by the proximity. Her demands continued with an uncertain, dreary wobble. "An-And I know how much you love group but- _please._ You _have_ to start seeing the doctor again. Concordia isn't therapy."

"Of course," her mother promised, the words braiding themselves into her hair.

"Y-You have to be honest with… With Dad. And me. About the drugs. B-Because I don't want it to be like _last_ time-"

"I _promise-_ "

"I want… a whole fucking _life_ with you, get that? I want you to live long into old fucking age, b-because I _deserve_ that. _You_ deserve that-"

"Absolutely-"

"And- and I _want_ you there when I graduate from Aberdeen. I _want_ you there wh-when I… when I finish my apprenticeship at St. Mungo's. I- I want to be able to come home and tell you about my day. And I want us to laugh about the stupid stuff I get up to. The people I date. Th-The things that Gabriel is doing. Wh-When he graduates from… from secondary school or- or from _Hogwarts-_ I… I want you _there_ and I want you _healthy_ and _h-happy_ and-"

The sentiment spilled out of her, so unexpectedly earnest that the tears stains on her mother's face felt deep, eroding painfully across her skin, and- and… Maybe it was stupid. But in that moment, the misery of it all felt so-

"Caleb found your bong."

It took a moment for the comment to register, jilted and inappropriate as it was following on the coattails of her diatribe. Her mother's eyes squinting in confusion before a surprised, breathy laugh escaped her.

"Did he?"

A tear caressed Cleo's face. "Yeah."

Her mother regarded her a moment longer before her lips settled into a smirk. "He left some for me, right?"

Their faces broke simultaneously into uncertain, meek smiles. Her mother's eyes glittered with laughter unexpressed and Cleo felt the relief take hold in a form unexpected; deconstructing a few week's worth of stress, the floodgates bursting open as she was wracked with sobs too difficult and momentous to hold back anymore.

And, for once, her mother was strong enough to hold her.

••••••••••

Of course, there was the matter of Violet.

Little bird, perched on the edge of her elbow, all clumsy on downy limbs. It was the first day she wanted to walk. Cleo wasn't going to deny her; neither would Pye, when faced with the girl's request. It had to be Cleo.

No particular reason.

And Pye wasn't going to push.

The floor was more crowded than usual, all sorts of people rushing in and out of Transfigurative Care in a blur of lime-colored robes. This state of affairs was perhaps a touch inconvenient, but also unsurprising: That morning, a young boy had partially transfigured himself into an imaginary creature he'd read about in a book, and was suffering for it. Cleo had been delivering and reporting on experimental pain elixirs for most of her shift.

In the interest of avoiding the manic energy of the Minders who were caring for the boy, she and Violet veered away from the department Floo and toward the quieter section of the floor, which housed some staff rooms, offices, and Memory Services wards.

Violet was lamenting about the stairs again.

"I can do it."

"I'm not worried about the 'down' part," Cleo reminded her. "I just know you're going to exhaust yourself on the climb back up."

"I think it's worth a shot."

Cleo snorted. "Of course _you_ would, considering you're not the one who'll get sacked if anything happens to you."

Violet wobbled a bit on the next few steps. "Well, isn't challenging my muscles good for me, or something? Like physical therapy?"

Cleo was careful to stand firm as Violet righted her legs on her own. "I'm not a trained physical therapist, and this is your first time walking. I don't want you to overdo it."

Violet's expression contorted, unnervingly petulant. Like a child. " _But-_ "

Cleo forced a lighthearted chuckle in some vain attempt to diffuse her sudden upset. "Listen, when you can walk for two straight minutes, _unassisted,_ I think you'll be ready for the stairs-"

Which was the _wrong_ thing to say.

Violet took it as a challenge, untangling herself from Cleo's arm to take a few, unsteady steps forward. On the third or forth, she jolted to grip the wall as her knees buckled under her. Cleo took her by the torso to steady her.

"I didn't mean _now,_ " she admonished, quiet.

Violet's lips twisted as she breathed heavily through her nose, her response a deliberate and frustrated, "I just want to be better."

Cleo squashed the impulse to smooth the girl's hair from her face. "I know."

Her brows knitted together in frustration as she moved away from the wall, taking hold of Cleo's arm once more. "What good is magic if it still takes _this_ long to recover?"

"No good at all," Cleo carefully commiserated. She gently nudged her elbow into the girl's side, playful. "Useless, the lot of it."

Her efforts yielded a quiet laugh and slight smile. Cleo counted that as victory enough.

Their laps included a back and forth stride up the hall, around the corner, down another hall and back. It appeared to tire the girl some, but Violet staunchly denied any attempt to force her to rest.

"I'm not the one who needs it anyway," she panted, before her eyes raked over Cleo's face. "Have you been sick?"

Cleo blinked. "What?"

"You look puffy."

"Do I?"

"Didn't you notice?"

Cleo's brow furrowed. "No one but you has noticed."

"There's _no way_ anyone missed that-"

It was odd how Violet's abrasive, straight-forwardness suited her. It made the insults more charming than anything else. "Maybe people have been nice enough not to point it out?"

"Nice enough?" the girl questioned. "It's not nice if you might be getting _sick-_ "

"I'm not sick."

"Are you sure?"

Cleo had an inkling what the girl might have spotted. Maybe. "I'm still healing. The inflammation hasn't gone completely down, I think."

"Inflammation?"

"My jaw broke."

Violet halted suddenly. " _What?_ How?"

Cleo watched her, a scoffing laugh issuing from the back of her throat. "It's stupid. I got into a fight with someone."

"You? In a fight?"

Cleo raised an eyebrow. "What? Do I not look it?"

"Uhm, no," Violet replied, matter-of-fact. "Not at all."

"Well, I did. Not that long ago. Bruising's gone, but I suppose I'm still a little _puffy._ "

"Oh." Violet stared at her cheek for a while longer, before a sense of guilt overtook her expression. Her face muscles ticked into a grimace, constructed one piece at a time. "Oh… Was that rude of me?"

"Abrupt," Cleo corrected. "But well intentioned. It doesn't bother me."

Violet didn't appear to believe her at all. "Now _you're_ just being nice."

"Nice?! _Never!_ " a jovial voice blared from behind, startling them both. "Why, Cleo's as _mean_ as they come!"

The briefest of glances instantly revealed the voice's owner: Ren Normandy stood at the center of the hall, arms akimbo and grin wide. Their oversized purple jumper was rolled to their elbows, revealing zebra-striped skin beneath, and they looked to be entirely hairless except for a bushy, black beard. Despite the strangeness of the crisscrossed stripes on their bald head, they looked remarkably human-like otherwise. A rarity for someone like Ren.

Though, despite the preponderance of evidence otherwise, she didn't want to assume. Cleo addressed them with a tentative, "Ren?"

"The _very_ same." He mimed tipping a cap at her.

Violet was staring at her oddly. "Is this a friend of yours…?"

"Ren's my Defense professor's… partner," she answered before her eyes returned to the beard standing before her. "Why are you here? Is Professor Tenenbaum okay?"

"Right as rain!" he announced, chipper. "Even had a spot of color about her when we popped down to the Hog's Head for a pint the other day."

Cleo squinted, suspicious. "Then… what has you at the hospital today?"

"Oh, I come 'round a lot, actually. My good friend Genteel Neal thinks my presence is…Well. _Lively._ Ha!"

Violet didn't seem any more at ease with their rapport. Her eyes darted between Ren's beard and his bright, vivacious eyes and Cleo could feel the tension in her frame as she leaned away from him.

For her part, however, Cleo smiled as she gave a reassuring squeeze to Violet's upper arm. "Genteel Neal?"

"A nickname from when we were in school together," Ren explained, scratching his smooth head. "He's a Minder over in Memory Services."

"That's nice," Violet put in awkwardly.

"Isn't it just?" He smiled, sly. "He _loathes_ the name, but of course, it wouldn't be nearly so fun if he didn't."

"Right," Cleo murmured with a nervous chuckle. "Well, don't let us keep you from him. It was sweet of you to say hi."

For a brief moment, a veil of confusion fell across Ren's face - the first of its kind, since Cleo hardly ever saw him perplexed about anything - but then he suddenly laughed, full-bodied and mirthful. Violet's body jerked against her, visibly startled. "Oh-! No, I don't come to visit _him!_ Poor wretch keeps away as much as he can when I'm about, _but-_ the others let me in to see patients due to his _grudging_ support."

Cleo's brow furrowed. "The patients? You visit them?"

"Few times a week, yeah."

Cleo raised her head slightly to peek into the nearby door. "I mean, do you know any of them?"

He seemed to contemplate this a moment. "I'd say I know _all_ of them, if they've been around for a while."

"That's nice of you," Violet said again, just as stilted as before. "Like a volunteer who visits the elderly."

"Nothing so formal and stodgy as all _that,_ " Ren laughed. "I just pop in once in a while, that's all. And Neal puts up with me since his long-term patients like to see me. I'm a bit of a chameleon, personally, so they get a lot of 'new' visitors."

Violet's face scrunched up, visibly nonplussed. Cleo explained, "He's, uhm. A metamorphmagus, of sorts."

"Oh," Violet blurted. "So you trick them."

He beamed. "Precisely!"

Cleo frowned. "Well that just makes it sound _mean-_ "

"Everyone loves a good trick every once in a while!" Ren said, grinning. "No harm in a little subterfuge among friends, I always say!"

"I mean there is if they're vulnerable," Cleo pointed out, suddenly heated. "You shouldn't do that. You shouldn't be taking advantage of them."

His smile drooped, a divot forming between his eyebrows as they scrunched together. "That's, ehm, not… what I meant-"

"What did you mean, then?"

"I just… visit?" he remarked slowly, looking for the first time as if he were considering his words before saying them. "It's just that most everyone in long-term don't remember me day to day, and I have to go along with it so they aren't upset…"

From off to her right, she heard the clattering sounds of footsteps approaching and deftly ushered herself and Violet closer to the wall as they passed. "Well that's not really _tricking,_ then-"

"I didn't want to _quibble_ about it," he fretted, though even that expression was quite mild. "I've learned that sometimes it's best to simply agree with patients and _move on,_ you know?"

"I suppose you're right."

"Not to worry- the worst I do to these people is annoy them," Ren commented, a little smile curling his lips once more. "After all, _I_ used to be a frequent resident here too."

"Oh, really?" Cleo's head tilted. "For yourself, or…?"

"All the above! My condition doesn't strictly _contribute_ to my health, you understand." He glanced at the passing group of people. "But Bridge and I actually first met in St. Mungo's. Caused a lot of trouble in these halls, the two of us."

"I thought you met in school?"

"We were in the same year, but that doesn't always mean you properly… _meet,_ you know? Especially since she was one of those infamous Slytherins and I, only a _lauded_ Gryffindor." He drew himself up with exaggerated pomp before dropping the act with an eye roll. "None of that tripe out in the real world, though. Nobody cares what House you were; it's just a _fun fact_ to reminisce about."

Cleo pursed her lips. "Well, I suppose that's the nice thing about- _what?_ "

She noticed Ren wasn't looking at her anymore. Brow wrinkled with concern, his address was directed beside her, "Hey, you okay…?"

Cleo felt a sharp pain in the crook of her elbow. Trying to shake her arm away from the discomfort and failing, she twisted toward Violet. "What are you-?"

Violet was staring down the hall, eyes widened and frame wound with tension. Her breathing had caught, fingers carving large divots into Cleo's arm.

"Hey?" Cleo cajoled. "What's wrong?"

The girl didn't even acknowledge her, much less respond.

"Vio-?"

The girl's hand struck toward her lips, fingernails digging in with painful precision to pin her mouth shut. Her entire expression had tightened into a strained grimace. Desperate. Terrified. Cleo grappled the girl's wrist and wrenched it away.

" _Don't!_ " Cleo found herself snapping in a harsh, bleated whisper. "What is _wrong_ with you-"

The girl's principal response was a breath she choked on; her teeth wrapped around and bit it back, the whole of her face contorting to suppress the noise. The second was the way her eyes darted to the nearest door, the way her muscles contracted and resisted against Cleo's grip in very clear attempt to disentangle herself from her.

When Cleo looked down the hall, all she could see was a group of four: Head Healer Poke surrounded by staff she didn't recognize, and a solitary woman standing amongst them. Pretty, prim, and blonde.

Violet was sinking against the wall, trying to pull out of Cleo's grip in earnest.

Cleo didn't let her go. "What are you _doing_ -"

Violet's head shook as she continued to pull, sinking further down.

"Are you getting tired?" Ren questioned, though his chipper tone sounded like an affectation. His demeanor, however, was calm and, disconcertingly enough, _practiced._ "Here, let me help you get back, hm?"

However, upon Ren's approach, the girl reared so hard back against the wall that an ungodly _thump_ careened down the hallway. None of the group at the other end seemed to take notice, though. Not long enough to stop talking.

Except.

 _She_ did look. The regal, angular lines of her face shifted only slightly in time with the dart of her eyes as she noticed them for the first time. For a moment, Cleo couldn't shake a feeling of recognition when regarding the woman fully.

However, the woman's attention was fleeting, the look nothing more than cursory. A quick glance prompted by a sudden noise close by.

But Violet's reaction was _violent._

With a strength wholly alien to her current state, Violent twisted away with a panicked grunt, stumbling on unsteady legs toward the doorway as she shoved Ren aside. In a few seconds, the girl disappeared into the next room, the commotion enough to draw a few unwanted stares from the group that time.

Her boss included.

Cleo's smile was nervous and wavering. She found herself pathetically mouthing the word "patient" to excuse herself, quickly bowing her head and ducking into the next room under the weight of Poke's stare.

Violet was halfway across the room, shoving past another Minder and a couple of residents passing in front of her. It was unsettling to watch: The ungainly, stilted lean of her gait, the utter desperation that propelled her forward, as if she were being chased.

She reached the other end of the ward, hurling herself against a doorway that was clearly locked, if Violet's assault on the handle was anything to go by.

The Minder nearby corrected himself before shooting an accusatory glower in Cleo's direction. "Is this one yours?"

"Sorry, uhm-" Cleo floundered. "I think she's-"

"Do you need help getting her back to her ward?"

"No," Cleo answered at once as she passed him. "Give me a second."

"If you could hurry, I'd appreciate it," the Minder told her. "These sort get a little jumpy under disturbances like this."

"I understand, sorry, I'll just-"

Her sentence died as she finally reached Violet, who was still desperately trying to get the door open. Her frantic panting intermingled with the tinny sound of the handle refusing to budge.

"Violet," Cleo broached, carefully positioning herself next to the girl. "What's wrong?"

The girl slammed her side into the door, the noise loud and awful enough to cause a few of the ward residents to glance their way.

"Violet-"

The girl pulled hard. "Open!" she yelped. "Why won't- _open!_ Please! _Open!_ " Her hand slammed into the door panel, the thump sounding so brittle it sent a chill down Cleo's spine.

"Violet, please-"

The girl slammed her foot into the door jam. "Open the door!"

"Violet!"

"I have to get out! _Open the door!_ "

"Violet, you're going to hurt yourself!"

The girl suddenly flew backwards, both hands digging into the side of her neck as a gut-wrenching, piercing scream tore through her lungs: " _OPEN THE DOOR!_ "

Every pair of eyes hoisted themselves in their direction. Violet continued screaming the same phrase over and over, until the last word drew out into a long, horrible howl that threatened to rip her throat apart.

The other members of the ward began to dither, distressed. A few of the women, including one with limp, white hair, began to wail at the same pitch. Ren was next to woman's bedside in an instant, his voice taking on a soothing timbre as he tried to redirect her attention to a basket of sweets by her elbow. By then, the Minder had joined them, wand drawn.

Alarmed, Cleo put herself between them. "Wait!"

"She needs to be restrained."

He sidestepped, but she moved to meet him. "She's a spell damage patient!"

With a worried frown, he persisted, "Even _so-_ "

" _Any_ magic used on her has to be used with _extreme_ caution as to not exacerbate her condition!"

"She's exacerbating her condition _right now._ As well as jeopardizing the safety of the other patients-"

Violet's screaming had devolved into a series of pained, desperate shrieks, loud and dismaying; a tantrum that felt unsettling in a girl her age.

Among the incoherent sobbing, a new phrase was starting to form. She couldn't quite understand it, but it was becoming insistent nonetheless.

Cleo raised both her hands. "Let me do it. I've worked with her a lot-"

His nod was curt. "Fine- but be _quick_ about it. I'll fetch a Calming from the storeroom-"

Cleo took a step back. "Could you get Junior Healer Pye? He's her Potions primary."

The Minder's acknowledgement was nothing more than a short grunt on his way out, sending reassuring words to some of the patients before he disappeared from the ward. Ren had moved to the other end of the room, trying to convince a patient who was holding their ears to stay in bed.

It was when Cleo turned to face the girl once again that she caught the new thing she'd begun to screech. _He's going to kill me._

She had no choice but to tackle this from a different angle. Stepping up in front of Violet, Cleo offered her a conciliatory, "Let's get this door open, yeah?"

The proposal did very little to calm her. "Gonna- _kill me-!_ "

"It'll be safe in there, alright? Just give me a second."

The door unlocked with a simple _Alohamora._ In the next moment, it was wide open, revealing an empty back office. And although Violet's weeping did not lessen, she was quick to barrel inside. Cleo stepped in after her, casting a brief glance toward Ren before closing the door behind her with a loud slam.

The room was quiet and dim, sparsely decorated except for some handmade warning posters ( _Absolutely_ _no_ _plants are allowed in the ward under any circumstances!_ ) and a single painting depicting a panther lounging in a rainforest. There were two desks on either side of the doorway stacked with dirty potion vials, medical books and journals, and a spool of yarn beside someone's knitting. In the back of the office was a wide rug paired with a worn armchair, a little reading nook which was free of clutter.

It was there that Violet had begun pacing, unsteady enough to make Cleo feel uneasy, her weeping intermixed with loud, gasping breaths.

"I need you to talk to me, Violet," Cleo broached, careful in her approach toward the girl. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on."

"He's going to _kill me!_ "

"I know, sweetheart, you told me," Cleo assured her. "But who? Who's going to kill you?"

" _He_ is!" she shrieked, anger overflowing into a full body throb as the girl practically _lurched_ toward her.

Cleo recognized that brand of frustration; she was already supposed to understand, implicitly, by Violet's estimation. She didn't want to have to explain. Okay. Cleo could navigate that.

"How do you know?"

She'd tried not to make the challenge sound harsh, though by the dismayed, bleak way Violet looked at her, Cleo realized she'd missed the mark. "You don't- I _knew_ you-" she sucked in a harsh breath. " _Believe_ me-"

"No, no, no, no," Cleo rushed up toward her. "Violet, no. I do believe you. But listen - I don't know what you saw. I don't understand. And I need you to help me understand so I can help you."

Violet didn't appear any more comforted. Her breathing was in a mangled, tangled mess with her distressed moaning. "You- _can't._ "

Cleo watched as all her anger deconstructed, bit by bit, into abject hopelessness. Terror, even. Her sobs continued in earnest.

Cleo would have held her if she knew it wouldn't have sent her spiraling into panic again. "I can."

"No," she whined, taking a step back against the wall. Her breath came out wet and honey thick. "G-Gonna- he's gonna- and I'm- _dead_ -"

"Violet-"

"D-Don't wanna- don't _wanna-_ "

Cleo stepped up closer, countenance stern. "Violet- _no,_ " her head canted as Violet drew her head away, catching her attention again. "Listen to me- _Listen._ He could step through that door right now and he wouldn't kill you. You know why?"

Violet's jaw trembled as she stared at Cleo's shoulder, unable to make eye contact.

"Because I'd fucking kill him. You understand?"

Violet's throat tightened as she swallowed.

"He'd have to get through me first to even get near you. I mean that. And before then I'd tear him limb from limb. I'd destroy him completely. I wouldn't let _anyone_ like that near you. Okay?"

A few more tears caught onto Violet's eyelashes as she blinked.

"Do you believe me?"

The girl sniffed.

"I would do it, Violet. I'd kill him. Okay?"

She was surprised at her own conviction, could almost believe in what she was saying _herself._

Violet's nod was nothing more than a slight twitch of her head.

Cleo allowed herself to take a step closer to the girl, her voice taking on a soothing lilt. "But he's _not_ going to come through that door right now. I need you to believe that." She looked the girl over. "I know you saw something. I want to protect you, but you have to tell me what's going on."

Violet hadn't stopped crying, but her tears were more subdued. Something about her energy had deadened to some degree, as if some part of her had shut down. Her eyes remained anchored to Cleo's shoulder, absent, and it took a while before she could speak. Even then, the words came out half baked and incoherent. More noise than speech.

Cleo ventured to grasp her by the upper arms, albeit gently. Thankfully, the girl didn't push her away. "What was that?"

"Can't-" Violet muttered, grimacing. "Uhm- hard. Like, process. Can't, uhm-"

"It's been a lot," Cleo tried. "Overwhelming, yeah?"

"A lot," the girl repeated slowly.

"If you need a second to think, we can just stay here and be quiet for a second. Will that help?"

"I- think," Violet struggled. "Dad, uhm. I-" Her tears were swollen in her eyes.

"I know," Cleo sympathized, somehow understanding. "I wish I could get him for you."

"I want-" the girl's voice cracked. "Dad- _I want_ -"

"When it gets like this-" She hesitated. "Because this has happened before, right? And he used to help make it easy?"

Violet's head dipped.

"Do you know how to explain how he helped? Or how I can help you?"

Violet's expression grew strained as an uneasy groan unburdened itself from her throat, as if the very _notion_ was an impossible hurdle to surmount. Cleo regretted the question immediately.

"No - _right._ I'm sorry, Violet."

The girl locked her jaw.

"Let's be quiet for a bit, then. Breathe with me. Do you know how to do a proper breath?"

Violet's gaze darted sporadically from her shoulder, to her chin, to her forehead, before plummeting to the floor. She offered another twitchy nod.

"Show me?"

Violet's first attempt was shaky, though she was able to steady herself when Cleo demonstrated on the second breath. For a few protracted moments, they repeated the process over and over until nothing but the sound of their breaths filtered into the emptiness around them.

On one of Violet's stronger exhales, Cleo asked, "Feel a little less fuzzy now?"

"No."

Cleo's smile was feeble. "Do you think you can talk, though?"

"I think."

"Okay," Cleo sighed. "I'm going to ask this again, but I want you to understand that I'm not accusing you. I just want to know how you know that… _he's_ coming after you?"

Violet's eyes appeared as if they were made of glass. "Because he sent her… but, it's _not_ her… but that's how I know he's going to do it. Because it's not her."

The statement seemed to confuse matters more than clarify them. But it was _something._ She could pick it apart.

"Okay - let's start… Who do you mean by _her?_ "

"It looked like Narcissa," Violet answered, deadpan. "But it's not her."

"Narcissa?" Cleo questioned, bewildered. "What, like Narcissa Malfoy?"

Violet's bones creaked on their hinges as she nodded.

The realization struck her hard. "Wait, that was- in the _hallway-?_ "

"It's not her, though," Violet lamented. "It looks like her but it's not her."

"Like, Polyjuice?" Cleo attempted to reason. "Someone disguised as her in Polyjuice?"

Violet appeared very distressed again at the notion of being misunderstood. " _No_ \- not Polyjuice! It's- it's _her_ but it's _not her._ "

"Imperius-?"

" _No!_ " Violet suddenly yelped, rearing backward against the wall in another surge of panic.

"Hey! Hey!" Cleo cajoled, grasping the girl gently by the shoulders. "I'm sorry- hey, listen. It's okay. I'm sorry. I'm just trying to understand-"

"You _can't_ ," Violet complained. "It's all _wrong._ I don't know _how-_ "

"Okay- that's okay, Violet. You don't have to. I believe you. It's Narcissa but also not. I get it. And you think he sent her here to… Find you?"

Violet's expression began to crumble piece by piece as she nodded. She noticed the girl's fingers scratching at the image of the raven on her left wrist, slow and methodical.

And Cleo suddenly understood who _he_ was.

Her captor. Her abuser. Her-

"Hey… _Hey-_ shh," Cleo cooed, shifting so that she could wrap her arm about the girl's back. All at once, Violet turned inward, burying her head into the crook of Cleo's neck. "It's okay-"

It wasn't, though. It really wasn't. None of it was. Cleo could feel her own tears searing against her eyelids. Violet's pain radiated like heat in her side.

"Was Narcissa Malfoy- did… okay," Cleo attempted, willing her voice not to quake. "Did she… Was she involved at all with-"

"No," the girl wept, her words hot, damp breath against her robes.

"But she was there."

Cleo's robes shifted against her shoulder as the girl nodded.

"And she-"

"Helped me," the girl whimpered. "G- got me- _out…_ "

 _What…?_

"She helped you escape?"

"Got… g-got me a wand a-and…" Her body suddenly convulsed as she held back a sob. "H-Helped me o-out of… th-the pl-place and-and…"

The idea of Narcissa Malfoy helping _anyone,_ much less the very type of person who her husband had gone to prison for terrorizing, was near impossible to fathom. But it did lead the way to an optimistic thought.

"Then maybe she's here to discuss the case," Cleo worked out. "I didn't recognize the other people with my boss, perhaps they were Aurors, yeah? And she's here to give a witness interview and-"

Violet's hand tightened its grip on her side, wrinkling her robes. "It's not _her._ "

"But it could be," Cleo countered.

"It _can't_ be and she _couldn't_ be giving information to the police."

"Of course she could. They would contact her after you told them she was involved-"

"I _didn't._ "

That stopped Cleo dead. She looked at the back of Violet's head, supplanted firmly against her shoulder.

"You didn't?"

"No."

"But-" Cleo floundered. " _Why-_ "

Violet's head lifted to face her, eyes glimmering with conviction. "I _promised._ "

"Who did you promise?"

The girl's eyelids lowered, laconic. "Narcissa."

"Narcissa made you promise not to tell the police she was involved."

The girl's expression darkened. " _Don't._ "

Cleo frowned. "What-?"

"I know that-... _voice._ You- you don't _understand._ You have no _idea._ She was-"

"No, no, no-" Cleo interjected as she sensed the rising tension in Violet's tone. "I'm not judging. I'm trying to understand. She helped you. I know that means a lot."

Violet relaxed visibly against her shoulder.

"But if she was with you-" Cleo faltered. "We could help her. If we told-"

"They've got her son," Violet interrupted.

That didn't make sense. Malfoy was…

"Who has her son?"

"The… man with the brown hair and the lady," Violet recounted, fearful. "The… the man with the brown hair, he was the one who… who got me out of my house. And- and this other man… I only ever saw him a couple times. B-Because the man with… with the brown hair, I hid from him in the woods near my house, a-and then the other man chased me down-"

The girl's voice quaked into silence as the pain lodged itself in her throat. Cleo pulled her closer.

"B-But the man… the man with the brown hair, he… he and the lady… they-" A soft whimper fell out of her mouth.

"I understand," Cleo murmured, holding the girl tightly.

"B-But they did the same to Narcissa too," she cried. "Th-They hurt her like that. I- I _saw-_ and… they- they kept us away from the _others_ -"

"The others?" Cleo inquired, a thrum of panic surging through her. "There were more of you?"

"I-... I don't know… I g-guess there had to be. N-Narcissa said so. And they- th-they hurt them, too. And… And they're going to do the same to… to her _son._ And-"

"Her son is at Hogwarts," Cleo said at once, frowning. "No one has him."

"Th-that doesn't matter," was Violet's quivering reply.

"Why?"

"It just d-doesn't."

And that was all Violet wanted to say on the matter, if her obstinate expression was anything to go by. Cleo sighed softly. "Okay."

"A-And now that _thing_ saw me. An-And it's going to tell him. And he's going to come find me a-again!"

"Violet-"

"I can't d-do that again! I'd r-rather _die!_ Cl-Cleo I _can't! I can't go back to him!_ "

Cleo pulled her into a full embrace that time, tight against her chest, hand pressed against the back of her head. "You're not," she said firmly. "You're not going to. You're never going to go through that again."

"He's _coming!_ " she wailed. "I wasn't supposed to get away!"

"I know. And we're going to talk to the Aurors-"

Violet tried pulling away; Cleo refused to let go. " _No!_ "

"- _yes,_ we are, Violet. You don't have to tell them what you don't want to about Narcissa. But we have to tell them that you feel like your life is in danger. They're supposed to protect you, yeah? And they can't do that unless they know what's going on. So if you feel like he's coming to get you and he knows where you are, we have to tell them so that they can make sure he _can't._ "

The girl contended with this difficult thought, scrubbing her forehead back and forth across her shoulder, before she went limp in Cleo's arms.

As good a capitulation as any.

Unfortunately, the Auror who arrived to help wasn't familiar. Dawlish, he introduced himself, was a squat, middle aged man with beady, tired eyes; a far cry from the vivacious, neon-haired Auror who had conducted the initial investigation.

Dawlish was a man of objections, it seemed. His initial one was the manner of his being called out: Pye had to endure a rather stern talking-to for not following proper procedure; then, the setting: he insisted that Violet return to her room to be questioned, a request that was carried out with a great deal of anxiety; then, finally, to Cleo's presence during the meeting- but Violet staunchly refused to let go of her, demanding that she be allowed to stay. On this point, the man grudgingly conceded.

Pye was stationed just beside the door, monitoring the proceedings with calculated interest, while Poke stood at the foot of the bed with a scowl of concentration, his arms loosely crossed in front of him. With hands plunged deep in the pockets of his trench coat, Dawlish listened to Violet's slow, halting account, face unmoving, not even sparing her a conciliatory look.

"Your initial statement did not make mention of Narcissa Malfoy, Miss Ayers," he drawled, sounding a few hours deep in his fifth late night of the week. "Are you implicating her in your abduction?"

"No," Violet muttered, unnaturally subdued. The Calming Draught was doing its work, however unnecessary; the girl had been utterly exhausted from her outburst. Still, Pye had insisted on it.

"Then I'm not understanding what you're attempting to say."

Violet offered only a languid blink. The bleary, drunken way she glanced from bed sheets to Auror and back spoke volumes of her inability to properly respond. Protective, Cleo felt it necessary to step in.

"She's saying she feels like her life is in immediate danger."

His gaze ticked her way, clearly irritated. "Obviously. What I'm not seeing is sufficient _reason_ for this 'feeling'."

Cleo scowled. "She _told_ you."

Healer Poke shot her a look.

Dawlish, on the other hand, fielded the objection with an exhausted, "Yes. She stated that Mrs. Malfoy is not, in fact, Mrs. Malfoy. I don't understand what this means."

As much as she wanted to, it was impossible to blame him for that; she didn't quite understand, either. But… "It means that the Narcissa Malfoy in the hospital today wasn't Narcissa Malfoy."

Healer Poke turned to face Violet, addressing her concerns forthright. "I want to assure you, Miss Ayers, that she _is,_ in fact, Narcissa Malfoy. We have many means at our disposal to properly and accurately verify the identity of those who enter the hospital. There is no imposter. You're _very_ safe."

Violet was nowhere closer to mollified by this assurance. "You don't _understand-_ "

"Then help us, perhaps?" Dawlish cut in smoothly. "Because as it stands, Miss Ayers, this new information is no more illuminating than your original account. I cannot assist you if you cannot give me the information I need _to_ assist you."

What the hell did _that_ mean? No more illuminating than her original account?

Dispirited, Violet sunk back against her pillow, muttering a meek, "I'm _not_ lying…"

"No on is accusing you of lying, Miss Ayers," Poke smoothed over, hands clasped behind his back.

"I'm merely suggesting that you may be a bit confused," Dawlish clarified.

Some paltry bit of life flared into Violet's body at _that._ "I'm _not-_ "

"The point is that Mrs. Malfoy's presence makes Violet fear that she's in danger," Cleo cut in. "Wouldn't it just be easier to bar her from entering the hospital? Why was she here, anyway? Her _husband_ -"

"- is _not_ her," Poke finished. "She is, in fact, making a generous contribution to the hospital."

Cleo couldn't hide her disgust. "Are you _seriously_ considering taking money from a family of known Death-"

"I was not aware you had been appointed to the Board of Directors, Miss Croft," Poke warned, gazing at her over his large spectacles.

Cleo's gaze dropped to the floor as she hid her scowl.

"Point being," Dawlish drawled, silky smooth. "I cannot ban a person from accessing public property without just cause, reputation notwithstanding."

"And as it stands," Poke added, raising his chin slightly. "Mrs. Malfoy has no intention to frequent the hospital regularly. She will be taken on a small tour of a couple of the wards next Saturday, contingent upon her donation. There truly is no cause for alarm, Miss Ayers."

Violet grit her teeth, body gone all wobbly, unable to properly process both her sedation and the sudden panic she must have been feeling. "You- you're going to let it _back?_ "

Before the two could properly reprimand her, Cleo stepped back into the fray. "Isn't there _something_ you can do? To make her feel at ease?"

"I have no _information-_ "

"She's dealing with trauma," Cleo passionately averred. "And she's gone through something horrible. Is it not the _least_ you could do to make her feel more secure? She sincerely believes that her abductor is coming to take her back."

Poke watched her as if he didn't approve of her grandstanding, though he must not have objected fully to her request, since he made no move to end the matter. Auror Dawlish simply observed her, waspish.

Then, his eyes drifted to the girl in the bed.

"I can post a subordinate at her door to watch her while Mrs. Malfoy is visiting," he offered.

Clearly, that wasn't enough for Violet, who lurched forward on the bed, sporting her wrists on display. The deadened, hollow timbre of her tone unnervingly didn't match the passion she was exhibiting in her words. "The- the _real_ Narcissa has these," she disclosed. "Ch- _Check_ her. If she doesn't _have_ these, then she's _not-_ "

"Miss Ayers," Poke cut in calmly, "she _is_ the real Narcissa Malfoy. I would vouch my life on it. Please, calm yourself-"

"It's _not!_ " she shouted, hoarse. "She- she has the tattoos. You have to believe me. He put them on her. He _did-_ "

"Even if I were willing to check the veracity of your claims," Dawlish interrupted. "With what can I vouch the evidence of it? Your word?"

Cleo's eyes widened, aghast. "This _happened_ to her-"

"Of course it did," the man agreed, scoffing. "That is not in question. What _is_ in question, however, is the accuracy of the rest of it."

"I'm not mixed up!" Violet objected. "Everything I saw was true! _Everything!_ He's _not_ dead and they're all with him! He was _there_ and _everything_ he did to me was-"

"If you wish to reprise the details of the case, I would rather we do so alone, Miss Ayers," Dawlish intoned, passing a significant look to Cleo. "As it is still under investigation."

"I _trust_ her."

"And as much as I am pleased for your new friendship, this is a matter of professional integrity. Not pettiness."

"You saw _everything_ I saw," she accused. "You saw him, you saw the man in the woods, you saw her _sister._ You have my memories!"

Dawlish raised his head. "Memories can be, and have been, tampered with, Miss Ayers."

"No one tampered with me! I'm- _not_ confused-"

She fell silent when Cleo placed a hand on her back, steadying her. Cleo addressed Dawlish once more, beseeching, "Isn't there anything _more-_ "

"Providing personal guard is already enough," the man insisted. "It is impossible for me to put more manpower into this situation when I have no solid information to work with."

Her gaze darted to Poke, who was already shaking his head. "I will not be denying Narcissa Malfoy entry. Not when there's no real evidence against her."

Cleo's scowl deepened.

"You will be safe, Miss Ayers," Poke insisted. "The Ministry will station a guard outside your door when she arrives. I can promise you that I will not guide her to your room, nor will I speak of you. She will not know where you're located. She will not know of your condition, nor anything else about you, much less the fact you're even in residence."

Violet's body had already been overtaken with a defeated hunch. There was no more fight left. Even when prompted, she didn't nod, nor did she address the men as they left the ward with more hollow promises. Pye, for his part, offered them both a regretful look as he passed through the threshold himself.

And watching her, Cleo felt her heart twist in her chest.

 _Next Saturday…_

Cleo rubbed her hand in soothing circles against the girl's back. "It's going to be okay."

"How?" Violet complained, voice heavy with sedation. "She's coming. They don't believe me. They're not going to do _anything-_ "

Cleo's gaze was on the door. "They don't have to."

She felt a slight shift in Violet's shoulders as the girl turned to look at her. "What? Why?"

Gathering strength, Cleo swallowed back her anxiety and looked down at the girl next to her. Seeing her there, terrified, abated her own fears. She knew this was right.

"Because you're not going to be here when she comes."

••••••••••

Then, the matter of Thea.

In the one place that no one would ever have found her, probably. No one but the person who had taught her this place existed. Or the other two who had demonstrated how to get here in the first place.

She should have been annoyed. Concerned. Any array of emotions that spanned from distressed to irked. Perhaps she should have begun with a reprimand, should have asked what Thea could possibly be _thinking,_ doing something like this.

Instead, as Cleo stared into the night sky, her first question was a jaunty, "So, how many times did you have to cast _Immobilus_ on the Willow the first time before it finally stuck?"

The starscape at the Shrieking Shack was vast. Encompassing. It stretched around them like a heavy blanket: thick, downy, bespeckled. In this spot, just as she'd found it the first time, the cosmos seemed so much larger and yet _closer,_ an innumerable collection of lights that she could close her hands around, unobscured by cloud or building. Trees ringed the clearing like a line of spectators hushed in the waning twilight, similarly reaching up toward the sky, fascinated.

Thea seemed engrossed by it as well, even as she answered, "'Bout a gazillion times." Her head fell backwards, thick wires of hair hanging away from the girl's face as she flashed Cleo a defiant, toothy grin. "But I did it."

"You did," Cleo conceded. Her eyebrow raised a moment later. "You know how dangerous that was? To do alone?"

"Are you going to be mad about it?"

"No."

The girl lifted her head away. "Then, yeah. I know."

Cleo surveyed their surroundings, frowning. "Not an ideal camping spot."

She could imagine the way Thea was more than likely furrowing her brow at that very idea. "It's as good as any."

"You know these woods are part of the Forbidden Forest, right?"

Thea's shoulders lifted, nonchalant. "And?"

Cleo forced a smirk. "Fearless, aren't you?"

"I have magic," the girl reminded her, curls sinking over her shoulder as she turned her head to look at Cleo once more. "What's there to be scared of?"

Cleo couldn't help but laugh at that.

" _Really!_ " Thea pressed, torso twisting in Cleo's direction. "What could anyone do to me? I can make _fire_ out of _nothing._ If some wolf or somethin' comes out of nowhere, I'll burn it to a crisp."

"Yeah? You think you could?"

"Well, duh." Thea frowned again. "And if it's anything bigger than that, I could do _loads_ of things to distract it or incapacitate it so I could get away. Easy."

"And if it sneaks up on you?"

"Lift it up with a _Wingardium Leviosa,_ then make some distance."

It seemed rather pointless to inform her of the limitations of magic like that. "Well, I guess you have it all planned out, don't you?"

"I'm not _stupid._ "

Cleo's head shook. "I never said you were."

Thea's lips twisted. "How'd you find me, anyway?"

"A mixture of advanced tracking spells, itinerant warding, ocular enhancement potions, and extensive intel gathered from your classmates, all working in tandem to map out your every movement over the last several weeks," Cleo answered, eyes glinting.

"Wait, seriously?"

Cleo waited a moment before she snorted. "No, silly. I waited outside your Defense class and I followed you."

Thea's expression deadpanned. "I didn't even come here straight off."

Cleo shrugged.

"You're a bit of a creep, Croft," Thea's grimacing face informed her.

"Does that mean I can't sit with you?"

Thea expelled a soft sigh before unnecessarily shifting away to make room beside her.

"So, are we still fighting?" Cleo asked once she'd occupied the spot.

"Guess not," Thea replied. "If I haven't told you to fuck off, then I think you're safe."

Cleo made a face. A word like that, coming out of a girl like her, sounded a million times harsher and unpleasant than it normally would have. "Thea-"

"I _will_ tell you that if you go _Mum_ on me, though," the girl warned her. "I'm not in the mood to be Mum'd."

With a soft sigh, Cleo's shoulders drooped as she relented. "Then, _as a friend-_ "

"I _thought_ you weren't going to get mad about it."

"I'm not mad about anything, Thea," Cleo objected. "I just wanted to ask what all this is about?"

"All this _what?_ "

"Well, we can start with why you've opted for camping these past two weeks instead of staying in your dorm."

Thea's nose scrunched up. "You've seen me here _once._ How do you know I haven't been in my dorm this entire time?"

Cleo leveled her with an incredulous look.

" _Fine,_ " Thea conceded with an eye roll befitting an eleven year old.

Though, after a significant pause, Cleo raised both her brows again before prompting the girl with a soft, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Why have you been staying out here?"

"Maybe I just like it?"

"You just like it," Cleo echoed, deadpan.

Thea made a grand, sweeping gesture toward the sky. "Can't get this in a stuffy, underground dorm, can you?"

"Probably not," Cleo conceded.

"There you go."

"But you _can_ get expelled."

Thea's lips pursed as she looked away.

Cleo's head tilted as she continued with a soft, "Don't know if you'd risk being expelled just for a prettier view, yeah?"

The girl said nothing.

"Would you?" Cleo pressed.

Thea's brows drew together as she staunchly stared at the ground.

" _Would_ you?"

"I don't _know._ "

"You don't know."

Thea sat up, squaring her shoulders. "You _said_ you wouldn't go Mum on me."

"I'm not asking you as a Mum. I'm asking you as a concerned friend."

"There's nothing to be concerned about," the first year argued.

"You're sleeping out here, in the middle of a dangerous forest. By yourself."

"So?"

Another track, then. "And you're skipping classes."

"I'm _not_ skipping classes," Thea huffed.

Cleo gave her a look.

The girl shifted uncomfortably in place before begrudgingly grumbling, "I'm skipping _one_ class."

"Thea-"

"I don't even know what the big deal is," she complained. "I go to all my others. I'm doing really well."

Cleo appeared skeptical. "That's all, is it?"

"Well, yeah?"

"You can't just choose to not go to a class-"

"Why not?" Thea objected at once. "It's my magic. My choice. If I don't think learning something stuffy like Potions is bloody worth it, then who cares?"

Cleo's expression softened. "It doesn't work like that."

Oppositely, Thea's hardened. "It should."

"Regardless," Cleo smoothed over. "It's not going to get you out of doing that class, Thea. All this is going to lead to is your failing grade and you being forced to take Remedial Potions."

"Then I'll skip _that_ too," was Thea's defiant rejoinder.

Cleo rested her chin against her knees as she looked the younger girl over. "Is the class that difficult for you?"

Thea bristled. "No."

"Is it the homework?"

" _No._ "

"Is it the tests?"

"Will you stop?"

Cleo frowned. "Is it Snape?"

"Now you're just being _stupid._ "

"I don't think I am," Cleo replied. "It'd explain a great deal, actually."

Thea lips pressed into a thin line.

"Like why you think avoiding the common room is going to help-"

"I'm _not_ avoiding it-"

"- spending your time out here in the middle of a dangerous wood -"

"I _told_ you why-"

"- in the _cold-_ "

"There's such a thing as Warming Charms, _idiot._ "

Cleo's frown was sincere. "You don't have to be mean."

For what it was worth, that appeared to sober the girl some. She looked away, uttering an abashed, "Sorry."

Cleo sighed softly. "I won't make you talk to me about what's going on. But I want you to know I want to be here for you. That I'll listen. That I'm not going to judge you."

The girl's eyes fell to her feet, her shoes digging into the dewy grass.

"He's an unrepentent arsehole, you know," she commiserated. "You're not alone in thinking that."

"It's not-" she faltered.

And Cleo waited a moment, watched as the girl fiddled with a blade of grass, as she cast her eyes to the stars, drawing from their resplendence. She watched as Thea took in a large breath, as her legs drew up against her chest, as she rested her chin atop her knees.

"You remember that day when you were writing that letter to your friend, and I told you about what happened in class?"

Cleo's head bobbed slightly. "Yeah?"

"And the idiot that made their potion go noxious?"

"Mhm."

The first year grimaced. "I… was the idiot."

A slight smile twitched onto Cleo's face. "Were you?"

Thea looked away. "Yeah."

"Well, I wouldn't have realized," she remarked. "You sure didn't act like Snape had just lambasted you."

"I'm not a _baby,_ " she complained, put off.

"Was that all, though?" Cleo asked. "One good telling off and you didn't really want to be around the git again?"

There was a shift in the girl's energy. Loose anxiety. A frenetic quiet. An edge that could cut you to the quick. She wasn't answering.

"Thea?"

"It's not-" the girl tried before she halted in place, frowning at the grass. "It's just going to sound dumb."

Cleo raised an eyebrow. "I doubt it."

"How would _you_ know?"

Cleo's expression became neutral. "There's very little you could tell me at this point that I'd think is dumb."

Although Thea didn't appear reassured by the thought, she heaved out a hefty sigh and mentioned, "He… reminded me of my dad."

"Your dad?"

"Before my mum met Carol, she was with my dad."

"Is… he not in the picture anymore?"

The girl's flyaway curls shook as she nodded.

"That must be hard."

Thea shrugged. "It's probably for the best, I guess… He had problems and… I don't know, he drank a lot, and it made things impossible."

"I'm sorry."

When the girl noticed the plummet in Cleo's expression, a spike of panic seemed to surge through her. "He's- he's not _bad,_ y'know? It's just-"

Cleo tilted her head. "You know, my mum's an addict, too."

Thea stilled.

"She lived in a really bad home environment and ran away when she was a teenager. Stayed homeless for a very long time, got addicted to heroin." Cleo cast her face toward the sky, sighing. "When she came to England and met my father, she got sober. Until she had me. Got into opiates."

Thea's lips twisted. "Oh."

"I still love her, though," she emphasized knowingly, her head dropping to regard the girl next to her. "Even though it can be really hard."

Thea's posture relaxed, a natural dreariness taking over, drooping her toward the grass.

"It's been hard, hasn't it?"

Thea's hair bobbed again. "Yeah."

"Is that what you were going to tell me that day with Trelawney?" Cleo pried. "Because you noticed she was hungover?"

"... Yeah."

Cleo's expression crumpled briefly. "I'm so sorry I left you alone in there with her."

"It's okay," the girl excused, even though it clearly wasn't. "I just didn't expect her to… I dunno-"

"It wasn't okay," Cleo underlined. "For me to act like that in front of you. For her to act like that in front of you."

The girl shifted, uncomfortable. "It'd been a while since… I'd seen something like that, I guess. I didn't really think I'd see it at school."

Cleo's next sentence came out in a quiet, heated breath. "I know."

Thea's eyes were planted on her shoes. "B- But… I know they're going through something, when they do stuff like that," she reasoned, her voice deathly quiet. "My dad… when I was little, he got into a car accident with his brother. 'Nd… my uncle didn't make it. My dad, uhm…" Her nose scrunched up, seeming to fight something. "Something happened with his head, I guess, and then he was in pain all the time… So it just happened."

Cleo offered her a careful, "Yeah."

"He wasn't mean to me," the girl deemed necessary to clarify. "He just… got scary sometimes. Talk about how he'd 'do it' this time. And then he'd cry and scream and Mum would have to calm him down, talk him out of…" She paused. Her nose scrunched again.

"But-!" Thea's legs suddenly went flat against the ground, the rest of her distinctly uncomfortable. "It wasn't all horrible? He'd always try to make up for scaring me. Like, uhm- he'd take me to the observatory, or, uhm- we'd go stargazing, or ah- sometimes he'd take me to Blockbuster and we'd rent all the Carl Sagan documentaries we could and watch them through the _entire_ day-"

"That must have been nice for you," Cleo reassured her quietly, watching as the girl's limbs twitched back into a contracted, reserved position. "Is that why you got into astronomy? Because of your dad?"

"Yeah," Thea weakly admitted. "It was the most fun I had with him. Especially the nights he'd take me camping into the mountains. He told me where to find _all_ the constellations. It was… the happiest I ever saw him, I think."

Cleo's smile was a faltering one. "I bet. He got to spend it with you."

Her optimism wasn't catching, though. Thea's nose scrunch had expanded to the rest of her face, contorting it hard against something she'd rather not show. "He said I could do it," she told her. "Be an astronaut. He said I was smart enough for it. He believed that. He wasn't bad."

"I know."

"He wasn't," she repeated, though apparently not for Cleo's sake.

"Of course not."

"He just hurt a lot," Thea explained.

"Very much so."

"He said I could be the next Vera Rubin," she meandered back. "He really believed that."

"Who's that?"

"She's the woman who discovered dark matter," Thea explained. "She observed the rotation of spiral galaxies. Realized that despite angular momentum, the stars in the outer parts were moving just as fast as the stars at the center. They shouldn't have been able to do that without completely separating from one another. There wasn't enough matter to keep them in place, as they were. So there had to be something there, holding everything together. So that's… what dark matter is, supposedly."

Cleo stared at her for a protracted moment before a loud laugh loosened itself her throat.

Thea looked at her oddly. "What?"

"You're way too smart for your own good. You know that, right?"

Thea wore the compliment awkwardly, her lips going lop-sided. "Maybe."

"He was right, though," Cleo remarked. "That's really going to be you one day."

"Maybe," Thea murmured again.

"You must have been so important to him."

Thea picked a few blades of grass beside her, tossing them aside. "He said that," she replied. "And I was, I guess. When we were out there, or at the observatory, or watching _Cosmos_ for the billionth time, I felt like I knew him best. That he was really happy with everything. With me. And I always just sorta wished…"

Her expression scrunched up again.

"What?" Cleo ventured.

"That, I don't know-" Her lips twisted. "That it'd just be…"

Cleo's voice reached across the way, "Enough?"

Thea looked toward it. "Yeah."

Cleo's eyes never left her hunched over body. "You were. But that's not how it works."

Thea's mouth stretched across her face in a grimace. "Because he was in pain."

"Because he was in pain," Cleo confirmed.

There was another silence that reigned between them for a time. The stars took witness, watched as Thea's expression contorted and struggled before becoming stony again.

Then, at some point, Thea divulged, "It got worse when mum cheated."

Cleo's voice dropped a few decibels. "Are you mad at her for that?"

The girl's head shook. "No. She wanted out. But she was scared to, I think. Because she was worried dad would hurt himself."

"I see."

"Carol was the best thing to happen to my mum," Thea told her, voice suffused with conviction. "She's a good mum to me, too. She made everything happy. And brighter."

"I'm glad you had her."

"I just wish..." Thea stopped.

"That it could've been different?"

"Yeah." Thea fidgeted. "I just… I don't… want anyone, or him, or anything, to think he's been replaced, or something, I don't know. It's dumb."

"It's not dumb."

"They're both important to me," she confessed. "I wish that could just be true for everyone. That they're both important to me. But my mum…" Thea hesitated.

"Your mum?"

"I get why she doesn't trust him," Thea said. "I get why she doesn't forgive him. But how can he get help if I don't help him?"

That was the rub, wasn't it?

And Cleo couldn't fight her on it; she'd felt that way about her own mother, many times over. It never mattered if someone told her that it wasn't her job. As a loved one, it still _felt_ like her job.

So, Cleo decided on another angle. "Why doesn't she forgive him?"

"Because of what he did," Thea admitted, voice going the smallest she'd ever heard it.

"Do you want to talk about what he did?"

Thea glanced to her and then to the ground, her shoulders lifting in a shrug. "He almost hurt me once, I guess. Though… he wouldn't have done it. He loves me too much. But it was the closest he ever got."

"Oh, Thea…"

Her brow furrowed. "My mum got found out and she was going to leave. And she was going to take me with her. My dad had been drinking, y'know, and they were screaming at each other. I remember, like… he came into my room and then it got locked. 'Nd… I remember… him really upset, and he was yelling at me. But not really at me. It was at my mum, but he kept looking at me. _You stupid bitch, you stupid cunt, you're gonna take her from me, I'm not gonna let you take her from me, you stupid girl, you idiotic girl, you fucking worthless-_ "

The moonlight betrayed the glimmer of tears in the girl's eyes.

"Mum was kicking the door down. He just kept screaming that he was going to do it. That this was it. He was all… frantic and… panicking and… I remember, I started crying real hard. And I think seeing me cry like that… it kind of woke him up. He realized what he was going to do and he opened the door and he let my mum take me."

Thea was nervously scratching the back of her hand. "I didn't know he had the gun with him."

There was nothing to say. Cleo scooted closer, an invitation. One the girl declined. The comfort of company must have been enough.

Her eyes didn't leave the ground. "I never saw him again."

Cleo's expression softened. "I'm so sorry."

"But I know he writes me," she murmured. "Mum throws the letters away. But I find them sometimes. He misses me. _I miss you so much, Dora._ I know he means it. I know he _needs_ me. I know he needs help. And I'm the only one who can, right?" She was hyperventilating. "I have to do something, right? I know he didn't mean to- but he did. That shouldn't matter though, right? He needs me. But I'm scared. That's bad, right? That's wrong of me? I don't know if I could-"

"You don't have to."

Thea looked up at her. "But-"

"You don't have to."

The girl's expression unraveled, the first of a few fresh tears bisecting the red tinge of her cheeks. "And when Snape-"

"I know," Cleo acknowledged. "We can take care of that."

The girl's jaw twitched and tightened, clearly attempting to stem the flow of tears that had already begun. "We can?"

Cleo nodded. "I'll help you. We'll figure it out."

The girl swallowed hard. "Promise?"

"Promise."

Another breath kicked itself out of the girl, living somewhere between relief and exhaustion. Her body relaxed; she sniffed hard.

"Thea?"

The girl quickly wiped her sleeve across her face. "Yeah?"

"I always heard interesting things about Carl Sagan," she diverted. "I never got around to watching his stuff, though. Could you tell me about it?"

Thea's expression grew perplexed as her eyes searched Cleo's face.

Her smile was sad. "Could you?"

Cleo observed a shift in the girl's gaze. "There's a lot," Thea warned. "I don't even know where to start."

Cleo glanced up toward the sky. "Anywhere."

Thea joined her. "Okay."

And she listened.

Canopied by the stars, she listened to the clumsy retelling of everything Thea had ever learned from Carl Sagan. Of entropy and the eventual heat death of the universe; of infinity and the continuing expansion of spacetime; of how the elements fundamental to their existence were the remnants of long-dead stars; and how the two of them, under that vastness, were part of how the universe attempted to understand itself.


	15. Listless

Happy quarantine, everyone, lol! So uhm, this one took an inordinately long amount of time and we apologize. Fun fact: The last scene of this chapter was the hardest to write and took about 5 different revisions to get to the final product. Hopefully, in the end, it was worth it! I don't expect us to take this long again, especially now that being inside 24/7 allows us more boredom time to write. We are really grateful for your patience and are so excited to continue!

For chapter images, check us out on AO3! Also look for us on Tumblr, username: cricket-and-merry!

Coming Soon - Chapter 16: Masquerade

••••••••••

The previous two weeks of E.A.R.W.I.G. meetings had been very busy. Unlike their initial gatherings, the lectern was off in a corner and several tables were scattered about the room. At each was a different task: painting banners, assembling decorations, writing invitations, planning the layout and cuisine… All in service of the Ball that had been thrust on them.

Ann had _barely_ made a pretence of consulting Hermione about it. After announcing that a theme had been decided (A Midwinter Masquerade, despite the fact that the event would happen closer to Christmas), and the dress code had too (Semi-Formal to Formal, no school robes, masks required), she'd spouted a cursory: _What do you think, Hermione?_

His friend's only criticism was that it lacked relevance to Muggleborns at all, to which Ann replied, _It's only a theme for the décor; collaboration between the members is meant to infuse it with its intended meaning._

Harry, for his part, found himself unceremoniously saddled with designing and constructing a winter-themed archway for the entrance to the Great Hall. His team was an eclectic mix of people from different Houses who were largely unsuited to the job: two Hufflepuffs that Harry only knew because of Quidditch (Dominic and Riley), a quiet fourth year Gryffindor whose name he still couldn't remember, Eddie Carmichael, and… Luna, who had, oddly, shown up to help decorate despite never having been to the first two meetings.

"She's _beautiful._ "

Luna was, of course, talking about the flower and ribbon adorned skull hanging from the top of the archway like a dolled up gargoyle. Draping a white cloth behind the thing like a veil, she hummed to herself, oblivious to the rest of the team's horrified attention.

She'd yet to properly answer how or where she'd acquired the horse skull.

"It's _ghastly,_ is what it is, Lovegood," Eddie muttered, hands on his hips. "I thought we agreed that we were going to do something yule-themed: Some ivy, holly, pinecones, a bow or two- y'know. _Normal!_ "

"It _has_ got ribbons on," Riley pointed out. Eddie glared at her.

"This is _very_ normal," Luna told them, wistful. "Haven't any of you gone wassailing before?"

Harry tilted his head, staring into the eye holes of the suspended specter. "Is it, er… meant to be a thestral or something?"

A puzzled expression draped itself over Luna's features as she blinked a few times, lips pursed. "I hadn't thought about it like that before," she admitted, her voice going dreamy. "But it would be appropriate. Very good thinking, Harry."

"Um…" he faltered, trying and failing to come up with a way to dodge the compliment.

"Point is," Eddie cut in, "there's no way Rochford is going to approve this."

"Too bad," was all Luna said. Harry wasn't sure if she meant to imply she was disappointed, or that she didn't care in the slightest; her tone was inscrutable.

"Well, I rather like it," Dominic commented. "Lends a morbid air."

"It's definitely… unique," Riley remarked.

Harry's attention was almost wholly captured by the thing; there was something mesmerizing about how bizarre it was. "Is it… something to do with Muggles, then?"

"I'm not quite sure," came Luna's melodic answer, her smile oddly tender for someone gazing upon something so gruesome. "Though I suppose that would explain why no one but my father and I go wassailing around Christmas time."

"What is that, even?" Riley wondered, shifting her stance.

"Caroling, basically," Eddie sighed, extremely put upon. "Except _weirder._ "

"Father's barely standing by the end of it," Luna reminisced and, although it sounded fond, Harry couldn't help feeling like that statement was even stranger than her usual fare.

"Uhm," the little Gryffindor piped up, his arms crossed over his thin frame. "I don't really… I mean it's not…" He pressed his lips together, grimacing. "Ah. It's… uhm."

He was really struggling, and while the Hufflepuffs seemed disposed to be patient, Eddie was not. "Merlin, spit it _out_ already."

The boy's eyes were downcast as he said, "Sorry, I- I… sorry, uhm. I, ah, don't really… _like_ it. The- the horse, I mean."

Harry offered the boy a sympathetic frown. "You don't have to like it," he assured him. "Everyone's opinions are important to making this thing happen, yeah?"

Dominic nodded, and Riley said, "Honestly, having that thing staring down at everyone coming in might scare them off."

"That's exactly what I've been saying!" Eddie cut in. "Take it down this _instant,_ Lovegood!"

The little Gryffindor boy shrank away from the heated atmosphere that was brewing, but Luna herself remained remarkably serene in the face of it.

Harry, however, couldn't let this stand. "Will you just calm down, Eddie? You don't have to be an arsehole to get your point across," he said, caustic.

"Who's being an arsehole?" was Ron's bland question as he sidled up to their group, his team apparently disbanded for the day.

Harry, somewhat tempered by his friend's arrival, let out a sigh. "Nobody. _Hopefully,_ anyway." His glance at Eddie was pointed, and the boy folded his arms with a huff.

Ron watched this exchange with some amusement. "Right well, are you lot just about done? I'm starved and-" He suddenly reared back. " _Merlin's bloody balls,_ what in _hell_ is that?!"

Riley laughed while Dominic explained, "Lovegood's contribution to the décor."

"Looks like a ruddy demon sent to put a curse on us all," Ron muttered as his eyes traced the thing's ghostly silhouette. Then, he suddenly smiled. "Which, I mean- If that was the idea, then good on ya!"

"It's not," Harry remarked with an eyeroll. "But I assume things aren't really going well on your side?"

Ron dropped his bag beside Harry's, scowling as he went. "These Slytherin bints must think we're going to have a fancy eight course meal or something the way they go on. The house elves know how to cook! We don't need to hire some wanker from _France!_ "

Eddie's reply was blithe. "Well, why not? They want this event to actually be _credible,_ don't they?"

"Besides, Hermione's not exactly in the business of taking advantage of house elves, Ron," Harry tacked on.

His friend briefly scoffed, but otherwise didn't respond to that before announcing, "Yeah, well- anyway, back in a tick; I'll just leave this here while you finish up."

Harry turned to nod toward Ron's things on the ground beside his. "Yeah, I've got it."

When his friend had disappeared through the door, Harry turned his attention back to the task at hand. Placing his hands on his hips, he expelled a breath. "So. The uh… What do you call this thing, Luna?"

"Mari Lwyd," she answered, the previous excitement in her voice notably absent.

"Right. Mari… Lwyd," he repeated, his pronunciation awkward. "We've got two for, and two against, looks like. So- that makes me the tiebreaker."

Eddie scoffed. "You can't be _serious-_ "

"Look, I don't know much about _wizard customs,_ " Harry snapped, irritated, "but this is clearly something Luna's family does. Just because it's different from _your_ traditions doesn't give you the right to be a prat about it."

Riley sighed through her nose. "I suppose that means you're in favor, then?"

Well, he _was,_ but that accusation made him feel like now wasn't such a good moment to say so. "I figure- we could meet in the middle, yeah?" was Harry's diplomatic reply, mind racing to find an equally diplomatic solution. He glanced Luna's way. "I mean… it already looks a bit like a mask, so maybe if we covered the rest of the arch with all sorts of them, it wouldn't seem out of place to other people?"

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind the company," Luna mused. "It's a nice idea, Harry."

Riley shrugged. "Maybe."

"Fits the theme, at least," Dominic pointed out. "Even _you_ can't argue against that, Ed."

The boy certainly seemed as if he'd like to; his expression was sour when he said, "Do what you want. Clearly that's what you lot were going to do anyway."

Ignoring his attitude, Harry turned to the other Gryffindor boy. "What do you think?"

He shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of their attention. "I… I guess that… it would be fine."

"Right, then," Harry announced, his attention catching on the next group to pass them by. He spotted Cleo among their number, but her gaze was distant and preoccupied as she filed out the door with the rest.

Distracted, he continued, "Let's, ehm, be sure to let Ginny know we'll need to use some of the extra masks from their team, yeah?" Harry's intent gaze followed Cleo, who was nearly out of the room; he hurried his next sentence to its conclusion. "Hey, I don't mean to skip out on clean up, but there's something urgent I need to-"

"Oh, something _urgent,_ eh, Potter? Wouldn't happen to be a _girl,_ would it?" Dominic teased.

Harry looked away from the door to scowl at the boy. "Don't be ridiculous," he groused, slinging his and Ron's bag over his shoulder. "I'll see about getting some other supplies to decorate the masks, and we'll put it all together tomorrow, yeah?"

A chorus of agreements met him, ranging from enthusiastic to grudging. He briefly held up a hand in goodbye to them all, his legs carrying him swiftly toward the door.

However, Luna accosted him before he could reach it. "Harry?"

The small of her voice was somehow able to stop him dead from across the room. Mid-stride, he hesitated. "Um. Yeah…?"

Luna's demeanor was calm as she approached. It was hard to know what to expect with her; the fact that she was wearing patchwork red overalls over a jumper with the word 'Summer' sewn on it, yellow, lemon-shaped beaded earrings, and large Spectrespecs hanging precariously from a hairpin made from a small sock didn't quite help him in making any predictions. And so, it was with a vague trepidation that he regarded Luna, her unerring serenity belying the momentous words which next came from her.

"Would you like to go to the Ball with me?"

Harry stared at her. As much planning as they were doing, the fact that he would have to attend the Ball itself had been far from his mind. He was acutely aware of the fact that the rest of their group were standing a mere few meters away, and that Cleo would be harder to find the longer he stood dumbfounded, but he couldn't help it. Of all the people he might have expected to hear this from, _Luna_ was the very last.

"Er…" He frantically tried to sort out the connection between his brain and his mouth, but to no avail. His voice cracked on a panicked inquiry, "... _Why?_ "

That wasn't at all what he'd meant to say, but… There it was. He'd largely gotten used to politely declining solicitations from younger years, and he'd practiced lukewarm pleasantries to exchange with flirtatious, starstruck fans, but this? Did… did Luna actually _like_ him? He'd never once considered the possibility, had never once considered her to be anything more than a pleasant sort of person that he saw occasionally, and that thought made him feel inexplicably guilty. Should he have been paying better attention? Would she be angry if she knew he'd hardly thought of her that way? Was he taking too long to answer? What should he even _say?_

The overwhelming uncertainty caused a red flush of heat to creep up his neck. "Sorry, ah…"

He floundered for a way to turn around the awkwardness he'd brought to the conversation, but her reply cut his thoughts short.

"Is that no, then?"

"What?" Harry exhaled. "No, uh- I mean, no, it's not a _no,_ but… I thought…?"

"You thought what?"

"I don't know," was his honest answer. He sighed at the ground before looking back up at her, scratching the back of his neck.

"Okay," she returned, breezy, as if she'd hardly noticed his awkwardness at all. "So would you like to go with me?"

"Yeah," he answered, the word falling from his mouth more easily than he expected. Then, he ventured, "As… as friends?"

Her head canted. "Of course we're friends; did you think I'd ask you if we weren't?"

Her misunderstanding drew a small, haggard smile from him. "No, probably not."

She seemed completely oblivious to the stragglers nearby who had begun suppressing laughter at the exchange. "Okay. That's all. Bye, Harry."

"Er… bye," he said to her back as she walked away. Embarrassed, Harry ducked out of the room as quickly as possible, ignoring the whispers that followed after him.

Out of sorts, he scanned the hall for Cleo, though she was probably far ahead of him by then. Harry stepped up to the railing, looking downward and trying to steady himself, when he spotted her; there she was descending the stairs, tall enough to tower over a group of second years traveling the opposite way. He jumped to action, flying down the first staircase with practiced ease before he reached the one she was exiting. Quickening his pace further to catch up, Harry called, "Hey, Cleo!"

She was so startled at the sudden address that she _flinched,_ head jerking in his direction. It was only when she realized who was calling after her that she seemed to settle, her pace slowing to a halt on the stairs. "Yeah, Harry?"

Only now did he realize he hadn't really thought out exactly what he wanted to say. "Erm…" He scratched behind his ear. "Are you… heading to dinner?"

"Oh, uhm." Her face scrunched up as she looked toward the ground. "I wasn't, actually. Uh-"

"I didn't mean to, er… Well, I don't want-" _To put you out,_ he was going to say, but just then the staircase they were standing on dislodged from the bottom platform, swinging them in an extended arc toward the western corridors.

Well used to the castle's various surprises, neither of them lost balance, but had instead lost some amount of awkwardness between them. Harry spoke first. "Right, um. Didn't really _expect_ that-"

She laughed, at least. However, her response was more serious, "Sorry, Harry. Wasn't meaning to be weird. I wasn't… _going_ anywhere, really. Just, uhm. Thinking, I guess."

"Yeah," he replied, moving to step down to more solid ground. He half-turned back in her direction. "Then, have you… got a minute? To talk?"

She peered at him, obviously concerned. "Are you okay?"

He didn't have the first clue how to properly answer that; his reply was meandering. "Yeah, it's just- I've been meaning to meet for a while, but you were gone for a week and a half, and I've had my detentions, and things are… _busy-_ " He grimaced at this umbrella term for all his skiving off and general weirdness of mind. "And… Well. You know."

"If it's about the fight," she prefaced, joining him on the veranda. "I'm really sorry. I wish I'd dealt with that conversation better. I didn't want to argue with you or make you feel like I thought you were a bad person."

"I…" Harry's disbelieving laugh stuttered out of him, unexpected. " _What?_ Did you just steal _my_ apology?!"

She raised an eyebrow. "Not really stealing if I owed one as well."

"Well- you haven't got anything to be sorry for!" he declared, the mirth lingering on his face. " _I'm_ the one who overreacted."

"We both got really heated and it wasn't productive," she asserted, diplomatic. "Obviously the subject matter had a lot of personal meaning to the both of us."

"I still shouldn't have jumped to conclusions, or said what I did," Harry admitted, sobering. "So… I'm sorry too."

"Thank you. I forgive you."

In that moment, he couldn't help but be reminded of his talk with Remus. "You don't have to," he echoed the man's words, the somber memory lending a hush to his voice. "But thanks."

Her expression was unreadable, but strange. "We can both try harder in future to discuss these kinds of things without getting angry at one another. Sound fair?"

"Yeah, suppose so," Harry said with a small, relieved sigh.

Her accompanying sigh was distracted. "Great."

Harry peered at her with some concern. "Um, forget me- Are _you_ okay?"

"I don't know," she answered, gaze going to the towering staircases above them.

He paused, considering. "Do you… want to talk about it?"

She bit her lip. "I don't know."

Harry frowned, his gaze drifting toward the ground. "Yeah. I get it."

"No, like," she objected, shifting awkwardly on her feet. "I mean-"

"You don't have to-"

"Would… I don't know-" Cleo's hands delved into the pockets of her robes as she leaned back against the railing, buzzing with nervous energy. "-would you call yourself the kind of friend who knows how to tell someone when they're being a massive idiot, or do you assist in the idiocy?"

Harry stared at her. "Um. Is that a trick question?"

"No." She made a face. "I think."

"You do know that the _first_ year I was here, my friends and I snuck into a forbidden wing of the school to catch someone in the act of stealing the Philosopher's Stone, right?"

"No?" She squinted at him. "There's a real Philosopher's Stone?"

"Well- _yeah._ Of course?" he stumbled, perplexed. "And- I mean, you know that it was me and Ron who went into the Chamber of Secrets to save his sister, right?"

Her expression was incredulous. "What? I thought Professor Lockhart had… I don't know, claimed to have figured out where the chamber was, and went in himself?"

"Oh, he _went in,_ alright," Harry lightly groused, rolling his eyes.

She frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," he dismissed with a grimace. "But I mean, guess I just thought people knew what we were up to. Dumbledore gave us points and everything."

"Harry, no offense, but beyond the whole… celebrity thing, I guess, I haven't really known you as anything other than a pretty unremarkable kid," she informed him. "Like I know you struggled with the Dementors, I suppose? Malfoy wouldn't shut up about it. And I know I was surprised when Dumbledore called your name out of the Goblet of Fire but-" The breath that fluttered out of her mouth was half amused, half apologetic. "Sorry, you just never seemed like you got up to much?"

Harry blinked. "Well, that's… new," was his dumbfounded comment. He couldn't decide whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed.

"I mean- there were _rumors,_ " she amended, her arms moving to cross over her chest. "But, all of those sounded pretty silly? I mean, you weren't in a serious love triangle between your best friend and that… one guy who was here during the Triwizard Tournament…?" Her brow furrowed. "Forgot his name. The Slavic guy."

He suppressed a groan. "Krum. Viktor Krum. And _no,_ we weren't."

"So, you know," she ambled on, "I didn't really take much stock in what weird things people said about you. No offense."

"None taken," he remarked. "It's just… weird to think, you know? I've met so many strangers who just _know_ things about me that I forget that I'm… really not that important, to some people."

She very pointedly looked away from him. "Well, uhm. This is really getting far away from my question-"

Harry backtracked. "Right, ehm. Well the point is, if you're looking for trouble, then I've got quite enough of it to go around."

She grimaced. "Saying it like that makes it sound like I shouldn't be enabled…"

In the face of her uncertainty, Harry asked point-blank, "What's this about then?"

There was a protracted amount of time where she considered him, the weight of her stare pulling heavily at him as if he were being picked apart. It went on so long that he began to feel antsy. His mounting discomfort prompted him to fill the silence with greater and greater urgency, but just as he was about to succumb, she shifted against the rail, breaking eye contact to look over her shoulder.

"Not here."

In a matter of minutes, they had sequestered themselves in one of the solitary rooms on the northern end of the corridor. Harry had never been there, but it appeared to be a music room of some sort, filled with handwritten sheet music on parchment, a scattered collection of instrument trunks, a small piano, and a large terrarium full of toads.

When Cleo faced him, her expression was grave. "I need you to understand that what I'm about to tell you is extremely privileged. I _shouldn't_ even be telling you, really."

Harry set his bags down carefully beside the dias, watching her closely. "Okay. I… understand," was his concerned reply.

There was a significant pause after, where he observed a large swathe of expressions pass over her face. She paced nervously and aggressively across different parts of the room, never hovering in one place for too long. Every so often, she turned in his direction with a look so dire he thought she'd reconsider the matter entirely.

However, eventually, she settled. Perching herself up against a nearby table, she let out a massive gust of a sigh. "There's a patient at the hospital I've been working with for…" Her eyes rolled to the ceiling as she considered this and sighed again. "I don't know. A month now, I think. She's had a really rough go of it."

Harry situated himself on the floor in front of her, his back propped against the wall. "Is she… okay?" he ventured, unsure what to say.

"She is now," Cleo answered, clasping her hands together in her lap. "Her initial intake had to do with the obvious splinching injury she'd been found with. But it was really apparent after the first Dittany treatment that her injuries spanned so much more than that. She was malnourished, she had extensive magical injury with evidence of Cruciatus, _so_ many fractures, just the abundant evidence of-" Harry tensed when her voice cracked. She scowled hard into it, a few moments passing before she spoke again, tone hardened. " _-sexual abuse._ It was just. Horrible. We had no idea if she'd even recover."

Hearing that made Harry feel unquestionably strange. The image of the bellhounds' rotting corpses, their master splayed on the doorstep, was as clear in his mind as the first moment he'd laid eyes on it but… Haunting as that memory was, it paled in comparison. He'd endured _Cruciatus_ himself, but he'd never quite considered that torture took other horrific forms, the likes of which had the capacity to drive people like Neville's parents to a permanent stay in St. Mungo's. The level of depravity required to do something like that to another person was… _awful._ This. _This_ was what the enemy was capable of. What the Order was _fighting_ against. This was what the Boy Who Lived was supposed to put an _end_ to.

The thought was paralyzing. He wasn't ready. Dumbledore had said as much. But- he _had_ to be! Every moment he _wasted_ sitting at Hogwarts caused unimaginable pain to other people, yet there was _nothing_ he could do!

His pause after her words was getting excessive, he could tell. Harry took a few breaths, trying to find his voice again, and squeezed his hands together so tightly that it hurt. "Um. Then it's… I mean, it must be… dark wizards, right?"

"Yeah, I think so," she admitted, fidgeting. "I don't really know many of the details. No more than what she's already told me."

His gaze fell to his lap, a frown pulling at his mouth. "Okay."

"She's a really good girl," Cleo lamented, choking up a little. "Not really kind but, really free in her own way. Fiercely _herself._ Not afraid to say what she thinks. But very sweet when she needs to be. She's just a kid too, you know? Just barely out of Hogwarts."

"Don't think Death Eaters much _care_ how old you are," he remarked, his tone suddenly biting.

"No," she responded. "Probably not."

Harry sighed, purposely relaxing his fingers, which had begun to ache. "Do they, er… know who did it?" he found himself asking. "The Aurors, I mean?"

"That's the thing," she broached. "There's a lot of confusion about… who, I guess. She doesn't know their names and like- I don't know, I was only there for one conversation when something at the hospital went tits up the other week, but… they _clearly_ have her memories. Yet this Auror was insinuating that it was possible she'd been 'tampered with' or that she was confused about who had her, and she was screaming about how the person wasn't dead, or… I don't know-"

He grimaced. That was all a bit hard to follow. "I don't really, ah… know much about how memories work." _Since Snape taught me next to nothing,_ his mind supplemented.

Perhaps picking up on his uncertainty, her expression became apologetic. "Sorry, uhm- it's all really complicated. I'm kind of explaining it weird."

"Is that what's bothering you?" Harry prompted, quiet. "What happened to her?"

"No-" Her mouth twitched. "I mean, yes, it _bothers_ me, but…"

"What?"

"It's going to sound insane."

Harry sat up a little straighter to look her in the eye. "I really doubt that."

Her cheeks puffed up as she held and then expelled a loud, apprehensive breath. "We were walking together," she started, staring down at her hands. "It was her first time, which is a huge milestone in her recovery. But in the middle of it-" She paused momentarily. "At the time I had no idea why someone like Narcissa Malfoy was allowed in the hospital, but I guess she was there for some sort of business. And while we were walking, we saw her. And just _seeing_ the woman caused her to have this massive meltdown. Completely and totally out of control. The other Minders nearly had to restrain her with magic. It took forever to calm her down."

Narcissa Malfoy? What did _she_ have to do with it? Harry crossed his arms over his knees. "I mean, she _is_ the wife of a Death Eater," was his flat retort. "That ought to be enough to send _anyone_ screaming."

"That wasn't the weird part, though," she continued. "She wasn't freaking out because it _was_ Narcissa Malfoy - she was freaking out because it _wasn't._ "

Harry blinked. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Cleo floundered. "Because I tried to rule out the usual suspects - I asked her if it was someone impersonating her in Polyjuice, or someone using Imperius on her; every time it was an emphatic _no._ She kept insisting that it _was_ Narcissa while also _not_ being Narcissa. I don't know what that means."

He took in a tense breath, fingernails digging into his arms. His words came in a rush, like they were being squeezed out of him. "Maybe it's possession."

"That's…" The girl's countenance grew fearful. "It- I mean… Do you think something like that is even possible?"

"Yeah." His tone was grave. "It almost happened to _me._ "

"Wait, _wait,_ " she stopped him, leaning forward. "What are you talking about?"

He fidgeted. "Last year. At… at the Ministry. Dumbledore, uhm." He probably shouldn't mention Occlumency with Snape. Or his visions from last year. Or… Well. Maybe he shouldn't have been talking about _any_ of this, full-stop, but... This was important, wasn't it? And if Cleo had trusted him this far, then the least he could do was offer the same in return.

"Last year, Voldemort was trying to get in my head," he told her. "He wanted to use me to get some information in the Department of Mysteries, and when he'd finally managed to trick me into going there, it was an ambush. Professor Dumbledore dueled him, but then he tried to take control of my body, and it was…" Harry sighed, looking at the ground. "He nearly managed it, I think. It… it was like my body was _melting-_ the pain was so unbearable that I wished I'd die but I couldn't move, and that _creature-_ " He scowled. "It was my mouth and my voice, but it was _Voldemort's_ words, telling Dumbledore to kill me if he dared…"

He hadn't really thought much about it at the time, he'd been so caught up in his grief for Sirius, but Harry found himself shivering at the memory, repulsed.

"How, though?" she pressed, her voice markedly gentle. "Before he was in physical proximity to you, he was already in your head. How?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "They said he was able to use Legilimency, that we had some kind of… _connection_ through my scar that allowed him to do it without eye contact."

"So Voldemort had a conduit," Cleo observed, her eyes darting to his forehead briefly. "But… Legilimency isn't a kind of magic that allows for possession."

Harry shrugged. "I guess? All I know is that it happened."

"Regardless… I don't think Narcissa has the same connection _you_ do to Voldemort."

"Well, it's the only thing that makes sense, doesn't it?" he mentioned. "I mean, if she's not _Imperiused_ or _Polyjuiced,_ then what else is there?"

Her frown was pensive. "I don't know?" she mused. "That's kind of the entire point, isn't it? I have no idea what she meant, or what could possibly be going on. In your situation, it was pretty clear that Voldemort had some sort of… access to you. I don't know if that's the same for Narcissa."

"Then, what are you going to do?" Harry asked, uncertain.

"I promised her I would get her out," Cleo told him, shrugging. "No one in that room…" She grimaced. "No one believed her. But _I_ do. If Violet says she's in danger, then… I believe her."

"Okay, then-" He froze, mind stuttering to a halt as he stared up at her with wide eyes. Bits and pieces of things she'd said replayed in his memory amidst a fog of surprise. "Wait… _Violet?_ " Harry questioned, voice laden with focused intent.

Even amidst her frantic pacing, Cleo answered him with an apologetic, "Yeah, sorry- that's her name. I should've been clearer-"

He felt something dangerously close to hope. "Sorry but, is her last name-" He stopped, the unnerving patter of his heart making it difficult to continue. He took in a deep breath and tried, "This is going to sound- I mean, uh-" He swallowed. "Violet- as in, Violet _Ayers?_ "

She stopped to stare at him, expression overcome with shock. "You know her?"

Harry was up off the floor immediately, a wave of… _something_ crashing into him with the force of a stone wall. He felt all at once like laughing and crying, his chest tight with some foreign, unfathomable emotion. Jumbled, he paced away from Cleo and toward an empty desk, staring blankly at the tabletop.

He heard her somewhere behind him. "Harry?"

His expression must have looked truly haggard when he turned in her direction, since her voice grew even more gentle, "Are you okay?"

He didn't have an answer, staring at her for a prolonged moment before he said the only thing he felt able to. "I thought she was dead."

"Oh God," she gasped, hands reaching out toward him briefly before retracting, uncertain. "Harry, I'm so sorry. Were you her friend? Had no one told you yet?"

His confusion settled slowly. "We… we weren't _friends,_ really," he managed, though he felt it inadequate. "I hardly knew her… I just, ehm- I can't really…"

Her brow furrowed. "I don't understand-"

Finding the words was easy; it was saying them that was difficult. "I thought…" His eyes darted about, restless. "It's… it's my fault, I… I thought she was dead because of _me._ "

" _How-_ " Her expression twitched. "Harry, how in the _world_ would it be your fault-?"

"I delayed the investigation," he confessed, his chest unbearably tight. "He- He said I'd… wasted a lead, that- that she might not come home to her parents because of me-"

"Investi-" She stopped again before gently grabbing him by the upper arm. "What are you talking about?"

Tears began to prick his eyes, then, and he jerkily pressed his palms against his face as if to push them back, heaving a muffled sigh between them. "Sorry, I'm…" A second sigh, and he lowered his hands, shoulders dropping with them. "I don't know how to feel. I thought she was dead, but now she's not, and- That should be a _good_ thing, but…"

"But?"

Harry looked up at her. "How can it be a good thing that she was suffering, and I could have helped prevent it, but I… _didn't?_ "

"Harry, I don't know how you could possibly think that you could have prevented it?" Cleo tried, blatantly puzzled.

He wasn't even sure himself. The world seemed more vast and unquantifiable than ever before, his outings with Snape only further driving home how inadequate he truly was to the job of _saving_ it. "I… can't say much," Harry prefaced, cautious. "Nobody's really supposed to know this, but- Violet went missing two months ago, and I've been helping with the investigation sometimes. But I… got in a fight with her dad and we had to leave early, without barely asking her parents any questions, and it was over the _stupidest_ thing-"

"Why were you even-?!" she started, sounding so heated that Harry bristled, leaning away from the hand that she still had on his arm. She caught herself, taking a breath.

"Listen to me," she ordered, grappling his other arm to face him squarely at her. " _None of this is your fault._ "

On edge, he lurched out of her grip, his distress plain. "She could have _died!_ " Harry protested, as if it were irrefutable proof of his wrongdoing.

She didn't approach him again, but her gaze was intent and severe. "I don't know how you got involved and I'm not going to force you to explain," she told him. "But I need you to understand, Harry, that it's not in your ability to save everyone. And that your failure to do so is not a reflection of you as a person. Everything Violet has gone through, the responsibility lies in the hands of the man who took her, who abused her, who tortured her- and him _alone._ "

He blew out an unsteady breath. "I'm the Boy Who Lived," he recited, toneless. "It _is_ my responsibility. If I don't put a stop to this, who will?"

"Literally everyone else around you," she argued. "Defeating an absolute evil like that is the job of an _entire_ community. Not just one person."

The prophecy told a different story entirely, but he couldn't say that. Instead, his mouth sealed itself shut, arms crossed tightly as he stared at his and Ron's bags across the room.

Her sigh felt heavy to his ears. "Nevermind. The paramount thing is that Violet is stuck in that hospital, her abductor is coming on Saturday, and the Aurors are refusing to do anything substantial to prevent it."

Harry, glad of a distraction from his turbulent thoughts, looked back at her. Assessing, he said, "So, no choice but to get her out. Where would you take her?"

"I don't know - I didn't have a planned out, rational thought about it," she confessed. "I impulsively said it. I have no idea where I'd take her or how I'd even get her out in the first place."

"I'll help you," Harry said without a single second of hesitation. "We can get her out together."

"How, though?" she questioned. "Have you been to St. Mungo's? That place is a complete fortress and- _God._ With the amount of Minders and Healers constantly on rounds, there is _no way_ she can just disappear without it causing some sort of uproar."

"They've got a Floo, yeah?" he pressed on, determined. "And you work there? You can just say you've been told to take her out somewhere and leave-"

"She's a spell damage patient and the subject of an ongoing investigation," she objected immediately. "There is nowhere outside the hospital where she is supposed to go. Her _parents_ aren't even allowed to see her."

Harry paced away from her along the line of wooden music stands. "Then- she just has to disappear. Disillusionment? Or- I have er, an invisibility cloak? You can lead her out that way."

"She can't walk on her own yet," she countered. "And her condition is too fragile for complex magic to be cast on her."

"Well…" He was losing steam. "I don't know. Can you Apparate in the hospital?"

"I can't Apparate, much less Side-Along, and even if I could, there are Anti-Apparition wards to prevent patients from being transported that way unauthorized."

He was quiet for a minute, thinking. "There has to be _something._ Some way to get her out, quick as possible, and without injuring her more than she already is."

There was a moment when Cleo's expression lit up, then just as suddenly darkened, her hands jerking up to cover her face. "Fuck."

His attention latched on to her. "What?"

Her voice oozed from behind her palms, sounding almost like a whine. "My portkey."

"You have a portkey?"

"Connected to Snape's office. It's how I get to work."

Harry frowned. "Well, that's good, right? It's a way out. You'd just have to bring it to her, not a lot of magic involved that would hurt her."

"It's connected to me," Cleo explained, her fingers raking themselves over her cheeks and down to her neck. "When she goes missing, they'll be able to trace it back to me."

"Oh." His gaze fell to the floor. " _Oh._ "

His shoulders drew back when she suddenly squatted to the ground, holding her head at her knees, hands squeezing the back of her neck. "Shit."

"Are you okay?"

It took her a good few moments to answer, watching the methodical rhythm of her hands rubbing the back of her neck, soothing. "Don't know."

Harry watched her, concerned.

"Just-" There was a significant pause as her fingers dug into her throat, the grip tight enough to look painful. She let out a loud breath and her fingers relaxed. "Trying to come to terms."

 _That_ sounded ominous. "With what?"

"Nothing," she suddenly answered, standing to her full height. "I'll worry about it later."

He fidgeted. "Okay."

Her postured tensed, expression bordering on suspicious as she looked at him. "I'll do it, you know. You don't have to worry about that."

"I'm not," Harry clarified, quirking his head at her. "It's just… if you're going to get in trouble with Snape, we can find another way."

"Snape is the least of my worries," was her cryptic assertion. "Besides, there isn't. You know that."

"There _has_ to be. Magic always makes options."

"If you know of any, say so now."

He faltered. "Well, _I_ don't. But Ron and Hermione could probably think of something."

"What-?"

"My _friends-_ We have to tell them. All together, we could figure it out, and you wouldn't have to deal with anyone tracing anything back to you."

"That's not-" Her sigh issued loudly from her mouth as she leaned back against a nearby table. "Nevermind. But I'm not too keen on telling _more_ people about this. It's bad enough I got you involved."

"You can trust them," Harry assured her. "They won't say a word."

"This is _insane-_ "

"You can _trust_ us," he repeated with emphasis. " _Promise._ We'll do whatever it takes to protect Violet _and_ you."

For a while she simply looked at him, prolonged and pointed enough for him to begin to feel uncomfortable. She looked like she was thinking - about what, he didn't know. But eventually she broke eye contact, gaze floating to the ceiling as she crossed her arms. "Where and when, then?"

There was an urgency to his gait as he crossed the room. "Thursday, on the grounds. I'll have to let them know tomorrow."

Her lips twisted. "Not exactly private, is it?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

Her head tossed back and forth as she considered this. "Besides these empty classrooms? The most private place I know is The Haunt."

Harry was distinctly puzzled. "What is _that?_ "

She made a face. "Sorry- the Slytherin… place I took you last time we were together."

"Didn't seem very private to me," he mentioned, remembering all the looks he'd gotten on his way out. "But then again…" His gaze was drawn to where his and Ron's bags were slumped on the floor. "I think we could make it work."

Her voice emerged over his shoulder. "And how do you figure that, exactly?"

Harry stooped down, uncovering the familiar little blue flower in Ron's bag. The longer he stared, the more his resolve strengthened.

His choice was hasty, but decisive. He pulled it out of place and hid it within his own bag.

"You'll see."

••••••••••

Unexpectedly, Malfoy came to class the next day.

Harry was cutting apart his pickled bat intestines when the Slytherin strode into Potions twenty minutes late, his arrival disruptive only because the room was so deathly quiet. A few heads turned in his direction, Harry's included, but Malfoy swept a glare across his empty workable, not looking directly at anyone.

Harry turned back to his potion with an anxious frown; it was at the fermenting stage, the brewing process well underway. He had to wonder why Malfoy had decided to show up at all. As it was, the extended N.E.W.T. class usually only barely covered the time needed to complete their assigned potion, and that started him off at a severe disadvantage.

And yet, Snape apparently had nothing to say about it.

Harry cast a furtive glance at Cleo. She was busy with her own potion and did not look in his direction. While she was studious as always, Harry's attention was heavily wavering in light of Malfoy's appearance. He'd been counting on his still being laid up in hospital, but now…?

Snape passed by the workable; Harry froze on reflex, but the man continued on, approaching the Slytherin section of the room. He stopped in front of Malfoy's station, voice pitched low but plainly audible in the small dungeon classroom, "See me after class."

The blonde's expression twitched with annoyance, but all he said was, "Yes, sir."

And that was all. They both returned to their own business, nice as you please. Similarly, Harry returned to his, but his mind was whirring. Snape had, perhaps, granted him just the opening he needed. It was a risky time limit, _but…_ He couldn't let it go to waste. Now was the best time to strike, while he was still recovering. And especially after witnessing Ron the night before, doggedly inquiring after every single person in the common room about if they'd seen his ward, waiting for another day wasn't going to be an option.

Lost in thought, he lifted a hand to place another sliver of bat intestine into his potion- Wait, _shit!_ How many had he put in?! His hand stuttered, eyes scrambling across the table to count how many were left.

 _Five._ He jerked his arm back, placing the ingredient back on the tabletop and blowing out a breath. _Close call._ Lifting his eyes to the hourglass at the head of the room, he caught Snape watching him, gaze intent. Harry's stomach twisted as he looked away. He'd rather not risk drawing the man's ire- nor risk him finding out just what Harry's extracurricular plans were.

Class time passed in silence, with not even the bubbling of cauldrons to keep him company. Each burner was set low, their particular potions requiring a lukewarm climate. The Potions classroom was similarly temperate: Snape did not prowl about, did not sneer at anyone, and in fact did not address any student at all unless they prompted him first. Harry might have called it peaceful, if not for the dreadful quiet. He tapped his fingers against the tabletop at practiced intervals, the action helping him keep track of the recipe, but even that slight noise felt disruptive. At one point, he swirled about his potion a bit too vigorously, and the small, tinny clang of his stirring stick against the edge of the cauldron was loud enough to draw some displeased stares.

Two hours passed slowly, painfully, but once they were finally over Harry had completed an _actual_ potion without interference, and with minutes to spare. He'd… actually done it! Properly memorized a recipe _and_ created it! There was some atrophied part of him, the part which had long been battered by Snape's infinite criticisms, that was just the tiniest bit proud. Harry couldn't help but admire his hard work, the Dreamless Sleep potion shining up at him with a lively purple hue.

Sensing that Snape might, perhaps, be waiting for an opportune moment to strike, Harry had earlier plucked an extra vial from the supply closet. He bottled up two portions of his work, saving the second in case some 'accidental' mishap destroyed the first. For his plans to work out, he needed to get out of the classroom as soon as possible, but his grades were of equal import; he'd lost a lot of ground after not turning in an essay and being absent so many times in a row.

Approaching the professor's desk, he placed his vial down with a small clack and turned to leave. Unfortunately, yet predictably, Snape did not let that stand.

"Mr. Potter."

Frowning, he turned back around, careful not to look at the man directly. "Sir?"

"Where is the rest of your potion?"

Harry stared at his vial, noticeably less full than his classmates'. "That's all I have," he lied.

Snape's stare burned into him. "Is that so."

"Yeah." He clenched the strap of his bag, anxious.

"You are, of course, _aware_ that potions brewed in class are not for personal use," the professor said, his tone disapproving.

He was losing precious seconds. In the interest of being more direct, Harry chanced meeting the man's eyes, hoping he'd either let the matter go or start up the humiliation already. Best to get it over with instead of drawing it out.

"Yes, _sir,_ " he recited, mechanical.

Snape stared at him, expression unreadable. Then, the unexpected: His gaze broke away, turning his attention back toward his writing. Dipping his quill, the man dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Harry couldn't believe his luck. Relieved, he turned on the spot to head out the doors, but in his rush, he bumped directly into Hermione, causing some of her books to clatter to the floor. "Oh, er… sorry," he murmured, stooping to pick up what he'd toppled. She curtly shooed him away before he could grasp a single one, bending over at the waist to collect the books against her stomach before standing up straight again.

Her silence caused a familiar ache to form in his chest. "Ah, Hermione?" Harry prompted suddenly, his mouth working on impulse. "Can we… talk later?"

"When?" she sighed, sounding put upon. "I have a study group after dinner."

He was acutely aware that the classroom was still full, his discomfort mounting. "Uhm it's… it's _really_ important."

Harry noticed Cleo glance their way as she cleaned out her cauldron, but she thankfully said nothing. Hermione followed his eyes that direction before scowling. "Okay… so let's go talk now-"

"No, I… I can't now, and besides-" He hesitated. "I need both you and Ron to be there."

She sighed again. " _Harry-_ "

"I _know_ you've been-" He cut himself off as Malfoy passed by them on his way to Snape's desk. Not keen to talk about this with an audience, Harry pressed, "Please. Just meet us in the common room tonight, and we'll find a place to talk. Okay?"

Her stare was grim and remained affixed on her stony expression until it broke, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as she exhaled. "Fine."

Harry nodded, though it was a listless, wavering sort of motion. "Okay. I'll… see you later?"

She turned from him, walking away with a mumbled, disinterested, "Bye."

••••••••••

The passage to the Slytherin common room refused to appear.

Harry cleared his throat before reciting again, " _Top of class._ "

Nothing happened, which was _ridiculous_ because he'd just heard a girl come through and use that exact password! He'd even checked to make sure he wasn't touching Ron's flower ward when he said it, on the off chance that was the problem, but clearly it wasn't. Even though the Slytherin common room had no portrait to guard it, was the wall still somehow able to detect who was Slytherin and who wasn't? Did it recognize his voice or something? Perhaps if he knew more about warding he'd be able to decode the mystery, but, despite whole class periods of Defense dedicated to it, the material simply hadn't stuck in his head.

With a huff, Harry paced in front of the entrance, annoyed that he'd have to wait for _another_ person to come by. This time, it ended up being a group of three boys - fourth years, probably - who were incredibly rowdy. Harry heard them laughing long before they rounded the corner.

The tallest of them cackled, "So, how 'bout it, Nate? Everyone's _dying_ to hear your password."

"I said _no,_ " retorted the second boy. "Not happening."

"It really _is_ about Amy, then," the third teased. "I knew it-!"

"You lot don't know your arse from your elbow," the second informed them all crisply. "Unlike you, I've got _proper_ aspirations."

"That's offensive, that is," the first one complained.

The third boy just rolled his eyes. "Just say it, you buffoon. We haven't got time to wait around."

"No!"

With an exasperated sigh, the first one stepped up. "It's useless; we'll never convince him. _Keeper._ "

The passageway opened, and the other two snickered. "Funny how you don't even bother to keep yours a secret- Don't you think it's time you changed it?" the second boy said. "You're never getting on the Quidditch team."

"And _you're_ never going to get Amy to look twice at you."

The mean laugh and waspish reply that followed was cut off by the wall falling closed behind them. Harry was left in silent contemplation, a horrible thought creeping up to him: _Did every single Slytherin have their own unique password?_ It was absolutely mental, but it had to be, right? Each password tied to each specific student… Harry would think the whole system bizarre if he hadn't come to expect this sort of thing from Slytherins.

Overly complicated, the lot of them.

Once Harry knew that no amount of knowing passwords was going to make a difference, he took a different approach. One that brought him uncomfortably close to the pair of Slytherin girls who arrived next. He drew as close to their backs as he dared, his footsteps sounding very loud to his own ears, but there was no need to worry about detection; the ward in his hand, along with the cloak draped about him, eclipsed his presence almost entirely. The girls didn't even look over their shoulders as they whispered yet another password at the wall and entered, Harry tailing swiftly behind them.

The Slytherin common room was both the same and different than he remembered. To start, it was a _lot_ more crowded. Harry had to flatten himself against the wall immediately to avoid someone's passing. The noise in the room rivaled Gryffindor, though the culprits seemed limited to a handful of boisterous people rather than all the inhabitants at large. And, despite the fact that December had just barely arrived, there were already Christmas decorations scattered about, too stylish and tasteful to have been placed by house elves.

A few things hadn't changed much at all, though. Namely, the oppressive feel of the place. Everything was shadowed, moody. Dark leather wingbacks, serpentine shapes undulating in the rugs, emerald draperies with clasps of silver, ceilings black as night, windows tinted with an outlook into the gloomy undercurrents of the lake. Though the common space was larger than Gryffindor's, it felt smaller, making the amount of bodies present feel like… _too much._

Overwhelming as it was, he knew he needed to stay focused. He made it across the room without too much difficulty, staying to the sections where students were sitting, calm and motionless, locked in conversation or study. He found himself stuck when a girl began vigorously pacing in the space between a line of students hovering over a tense game of cards and a corner that was occupied by a small, furtive group. The latter contained people he recognized.

It was that Ann girl and the rest of her lackeys, alongside… Rhys Urquhart. The boy had his arm slung across the girl's shoulders, legs crossed, looking about as relaxed as Harry had ever seen him.

"He's bold, that's for certain," Urquhart remarked in a manner that suggested only a casual interest, glancing up briefly from the book on his knee.

In contrast, his girlfriend was animated with the force of her indignation. " _Merlin,_ I can't believe he wrote you like that!" Ann exclaimed with a disbelieving chuckle, her hand swaying in front of her face as if she were shooing something away. "What an _ugly_ little proposition."

The pacing girl, which he then recognized was one of the twins, had the offending letter clutched in her hands, mumbling a morose, "It's not a proposition, it's an _order._ He has told them we've been secretly engaged for two years. But we _haven't._ And I don't _want_ to move to France-"

Ann sat up with such vigor that Urquhart's arm was jostled off her shoulder. "Then don't!"

"I _have_ to; they believe my virtue is… _compromised._ Mother is _so_ upset, and- and Eliza said I shouldn't complain because they are _very_ rich-"

"No matter how advantageous the match, it simply won't do," she insisted, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. "There are _quite_ enough rich men in Britain for anyone's liking! Listen- you _must_ tell your father that French weather will make you _terribly_ ill, and that you cannot _bear_ to be parted with your sister. Say your heart will be _unmendably_ broken to be alone and friendless in a strange country, and you will _never_ speak to him again if he allows it! Then, the quarrel will go between your parents, and you hardly have to be involved."

The other girl huffed a worried sigh. "But, I don't _want_ to disown my father…"

"Of _course_ not! And when he calls off the marriage, you can say you were _so_ caught up when you wrote that letter, and that all is well and he is utterly forgiven. But not a _moment_ before you get your way, understand?"

Urquhart spoke up again. "Isn't that a touch gratuitously underhand? Flora, why not just refuse the man outright if you find him so repulsive?"

"Mother would be _frightfully_ angry if-"

Flora stopped pacing, turning their way, giving Harry an opening to pass through. He did so carefully, not bothering to listen to the rest as he slipped through the shadowed doorway which led to the dormitories.

He'd been in the common room before, but beyond was new ground that was a _lot_ more new than he'd expected. Unlike Gryffindor, there was no split indicating separate dorms for different genders, no staircases, no signs to show which years inhabited which space; instead, he was confronted with a single dark hallway, along which were two lines of identical doors that stretched as far as he could see. So many, in fact, that he suspected there were far more rooms than there were Slytherins. Cautious, he tried a nearby door and found it, predictably, locked. The further he advanced, the more he could see the hall branch off into various cul de sacs and tributaries, the corridor seeming to meander in whatever direction it pleased. All along the walls was door after door, each the same as the last. Endless and utterly indistinguishable.

Harry was struck with a hopeless sort of dread. He was _never_ going to find Malfoy's dorm room in this mess.

The sound of his sigh burst into his ears like a windstorm, and he put a hand to his forehead, the pointlessness of this endeavor weighing on him. Just his luck that even Slytherin _architecture_ was made to thwart him. The very thought of going back through the common room to get out was exhausting… He couldn't bear the thought that there might be evidence of dark magic _right there_ in Malfoy's possession, just _waiting_ to be found… and by his inaction he was letting it go to waste. No- Harry absolutely _had_ to see for himself. He knew _something_ needed to be done, else he'd go mad, but exactly _what_ was unclear.

He had _one_ more idea. Just the one, and it was probably his worst one yet, but it was his last chance to make something of his efforts. And besides, he'd already come this far… With that thought in mind, Harry made his way back toward the entrance.

He didn't have to wait long to put his hastily-constructed plan into action. In a stroke of luck so advantageous that he marveled at it, Malfoy himself appeared on the scene not ten minutes after. The Slytherin's expression took Harry aback: he looked _enraged,_ but his face was contorted strangely, in a way that Harry couldn't define. The boy's footfalls came fast, and he passed by Harry's invisible form with such haste that he had to jog to catch up.

Malfoy made several sharp turns, so quick and clumsy that he repeatedly caught his shoulder on the corner of a hard stone wall, swearing under his breath. Harry tried to keep close at his heels, but another quick idea forced him to pause at every intersection. He plucked petals from the flower ward to stuff them between the stones in the wall- his ticket back out of this labyrinth. He hated to maim Ron's ward, but he wasn't exactly brimming with alternatives.

After five abrupt turns and a long walk down a straightaway, Malfoy halted in the center of a curved hall. The door in front of him looked the same as all the others, but with a disgruntled sigh, he cupped his hand over his mouth against the doorframe before whispering something indecipherable. The door before him clicked open, and, frantic, Harry scrambled to slip into the room after him.

He _almost_ made it, but Malfoy, in his high dudgeon, decided to slam the door behind him, bludgeoning Harry's ankle in the process. The door bounded back open into the hallway, slamming against the wall and as he muffled a shout with his hand, the pain radiating up his leg - the _same_ one he'd broken only a month ago - he tried to limp a safe distance away.

Malfoy's voice was _right_ behind him. "Is someone there?" he barked. Harry froze and, when he turned to look, he witnessed the boy peer suspiciously out into the hallway, wand drawn. Then, keeping very still, his eyes swept across the entryway, passing over where Harry was hunched. He kept his breathing shallow, not daring to move.

The boy's wand slashed through the air, and Harry flinched. " _Revelio Maximus!_ "

Magic sizzled around them, and Harry noticed something glow briefly bright blue in the Slytherin's pocket. Then, he could only watch with wide eyes as Malfoy advanced one step toward him, then two...

" _Ugh,_ " the boy suddenly expelled a breath. "It's just the _stupid-!_ "

He snatched a glowing quill from the bookcase beside Harry, his expression giving way to pure irritation. With a single jerky motion, he went back to close the door with a loud _bang,_ and threw the quill into his bag so roughly that Harry suspected he'd cracked it in two.

His ankle was throbbing, but he had to get up and move if he didn't want Malfoy to run into him; the boy's movements around the room were frenetic and unpredictable. Gritting his teeth, Harry slowly rose to his feet, sticking himself in a nearby corner to wait.

And wait he did. Five minutes passed, and Malfoy had ceased his wandering, opting instead to sit at a nearby writing desk, rolling over his wand in his hands over and over. Ten passed, and he was rifling around in a drawer for a potion Harry didn't recognize (not that he was particularly skilled at identifying them at a glance anyway). Malfoy drank it in shuddering intervals, disgust lining his face, before he put it back in its place, covering it with a messy stack of parchment. After fifteen had gone by, Malfoy had shed his school robe and was laid spread eagle on the bed, staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes.

Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty.

Harry had plenty of time to examine the room. The style of its fixtures was about as fancy as he expected, but that was the extent of his predictive accuracy. The bedframe, wardrobe, bookcase, end tables, writing desk, and window frame were all polished ivory which gleamed in contrast to the dark stone walls. The bedding was plush, the pillows a navy blue on the large bed, and the floor rug extended nearly the length of the whole room. There were candelabras of pure white floating about, a moving landscape painting so large it covered an entire wall, and a fake view out the window of some kind of manor house. Every bit of the room was festooned with ornate decoration and fine craftsmanship.

 _But._ Aside from the room being artfully arranged, the place was a _disaster_ area. The wardrobe was ajar, but hardly any clothes were hanging in it anyway; they were all scattered and piled up on the floor, including the robe Malfoy had abandoned earlier. The writing desk - once white - was now rife with ugly black marks where ink had been spilled, and was cluttered with old parchments and books, crumpled or worse for wear. The bedding was slumped halfway off the edge, one pillow left abandoned on the floor, and the sheet was tangled into a knot. There was Slytherin paraphernalia thrown around on odd surfaces: a scarf shoved in the bookcase, a pennant haphazardly hanging from a floating candle holder, a Quidditch jumper stuffed at the foot of the bed… It was a strange mixture of posh and chaotic that Harry couldn't rightly make sense of, no matter how long he looked at it.

Forty. Fifty. One hour.

Harry's poor legs were aching by then, his injured ankle complaining at him, but he wasn't sure if it was safe to move. Malfoy had remained motionless for ages by then. Was he not going to go to lunch? It must be nearly over already, but Malfoy made no move to leave. Rather, he looked to be settling in; Harry had counted on his eventually leaving, but… What if he _didn't?_ Would Harry have to wait until curfew to sneak out? How was he supposed to even leave this room? What if the door required a password from the inside too, or if by opening it he tripped off some kind of alarm? What then?

 _This plan is unbelievably stupid,_ he thought to himself, more an acknowledgement than a realization. But- He was here now, so he may as well make the best of it.

Malfoy didn't move as Harry crept forward, the flower ward in his hand becoming a little sweaty under his nervous grip. The Slytherin's eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep; there was a persistent furrow to his brow, and his fingers twitched in an irregular rhythm.

There were still some things glowing blue in the room, since Malfoy had never ended his Revealing spell. Harry had spotted a few knickknacks here and there: a set of spelled quills, a large goblet inlaid with emeralds, a few magical textbooks, a little glass decanter with seashells in it, a few of Malfoy's cloaks… but, having had quite a chunk of time to observe the space, it was odd that not much had stuck out to him. Of course, he had no idea what he was looking for, but he'd figured he'd know it when he saw it; dark magic, in his experience, was not particularly _subtle._ And yet, there was nothing that looked particularly suspicious; it was just a normal, if richly furnished, room. No cursed statues, no mysterious bubbling cauldrons, no creepy contraptions like he'd witnessed in Borgin and Burke's… just regular stuff that he'd expect his dorm mates in Gryffindor to have lying around.

Not much to search, either. His trunk and wardrobe were thrown wide open, and a surreptitious peek into the adjacent bathroom revealed nothing more than soap and toothbrush. Looked like his plan was doomed to be dead on arrival; there really was nothing to see. If Malfoy possessed any dark magical objects, then they weren't kept in his room.

Frustrated, Harry heaved a small sigh. In almost the same instant, Malfoy sprang into a sitting position, alert.

"Who's there?!" he questioned, wand out. A rush of anxiety flowed through Harry - had Malfoy actually _heard_ him? A panicked glance at the ward in his hand revealed that it was still mostly intact, save for a few petals, but Ron had also mentioned that it was a work in progress… He held his breath, moving slowly away from where he'd made the noise.

Unfortunately, the room was a minefield. There were so many things on the floor that he was bound to knock into one of them. And Malfoy, alert as he was, saw the exact moment that his foot caught on a discarded pair of trousers.

A Stunning Spell sizzled past his shoulder, hitting the wall, mere centimeters away from him. This was bad. _Really_ bad. If Malfoy's spell really had connected, there was no telling what he'd do with Harry once he had him. Belatedly, _mortifyingly,_ he realized they were _completely alone_ there, and Harry hadn't told anyone where he would be or what he was doing. And if Malfoy really _was_ a Death Eater now, as he'd long suspected… then Harry had delivered himself directly into the lair of the beast.

He didn't have time to feel fear, or even admonish himself for stupidity; he just had to get out. _Now._ But escaping without being recognized was looking to be a more and more impossible feat. On the bed between him and Malfoy, he spotted a small, silver object buried beneath the tangled sheet. A pocket watch, looked like. Maybe if he could just grab it and throw it somewhere, it would be enough of a distraction that-

The instant his hand left the confines of the cloak, Malfoy saw it. " _Flipendo!_ "

Thankfully, he was just a hair's width faster. The spell was absorbed by his _Protego_ as his fingers closed around the pocket watch.

His fingers fumbled around the watch's edge as he positioned himself in the furthest corner of the room, arm at the ready to throw the thing once Malfoy drew too close. However, in his clumsiness, the watch face _clicked_ open against his palm.

And something changed.

He observed it in the angular profile of the other boy's face before he felt it inside himself; the way Malfoy's gaze seemed to sharpen, the corners of his lips tightening into a horrible scowl, wand arm slashing outward, like a threat.

Harry had gone toe to toe with Malfoy many times before, but none of those times had ever felt quite like _this._ His fear mounted at a pace and intensity that threatened to immediately overwhelm him, his breath coming in a quick staccato that threatened to give his position away as the other boy swept across the bedroom.

Eventually, though, it wasn't enough. When the first loud _Expulso_ careened to an empty corner of the room, shattering a vase into pieces, he knew it was over.

No time to think of more plans. Malfoy's lips were already poised on another attack, and Harry lurched forward, barreling into the Slytherin's chest. He stumbled back, surprised, and in that brief opening Harry rushed past him toward the door, desperately hoping it would open. Miraculously, luck came through for him a third time. He careened into the corridor, not pausing for a moment's breath before he was running at full speed down the hall.

Malfoy was only a step behind him. " _Potter!_ "

He kept going, following the flower petals he'd left. Thank _Merlin_ he'd thought to use them, else he'd have gotten lost for sure. Within thirty seconds, he'd reached the door to the common room, throwing it open before flattening himself against the inner wall of the corridor. Malfoy ran past him into the throng of gathered Slytherins, most of whom fixed their astonished scrutiny at his frenzied behavior. A minority of others, seemingly used to Malfoy's idiocy, kept on with their activities, unperturbed.

His attention darted about the room wildly, searching, but Harry went the opposite way back where they'd come from. Navigating the space unseen during Malfoy's tirade was an impossibility he wasn't willing to brave; secluding himself back in the hall seemed like his only option.

The wait was far from peaceful, however. He could hear quite a commotion in the common room as Malfoy raged, his shouts so loud and unintelligible that they shook the walls. Some of the Slytherins shouted back, others threatened to get Snape involved, and a few fled to the dorms, muttering amongst themselves about his wild behavior, but Harry shrank away deeper still into his hiding spot, terror escalating. There was no calm; his sense of dread deepened with every second, knowing the longer he stayed, the more likely he was to remain trapped.

And if _Snape_ showed up-

He didn't want to think about it.

Ultimately, Malfoy spent a good two hours outside before he returned through the dorm entryway, looking ashen and bone-weary as he walked past where Harry sat. It was impossible for him to even savor the relief; even his bones were trembling from the exhaustion of his anxiety. Even as the danger abated, his terror was nowhere near slated. It was impossible to feel safe.

But at least he could move.

His muscles shook terribly as he slunk to his feet, his fingers wrapped in a death grip to keep his cloak affixed to his body. His other hand grappled the useless pocket watch painfully in his fist, as that arm shakily anchored the ward against his side. It felt like an eternity before he took his first step to survey the Slytherin Common Room.

The place was a mess, but he wasn't in the mood to survey to what extent Malfoy had turned the place over to find him. The parlor area was practically empty and Harry took his first tentative, slow steps toward the entrance.

It wasn't until he was face to face with that empty patch of wall that he'd realized the scope of his second problem: There was no getting out, at least not until someone else opened the path.

His hands clenched as he let out a breath.

 _Fuck._

He felt a sharp pain in his palm and nearly recoiled; thankfully his Seeker-honed reflexes prevented him from dropping any of the precariously held objects on his person. But as he slunk to the nearby wall, he shifted the pocket watch in his hand to a more comfortable position between his fingers. His other hand loosened itself from his cloak and went to rub at the red indentations on his skin.

Stupid thing.

His thumb smoothed over the butt of his palm as he flipped the watch cover closed against his wrist.

And then he felt it again.

A heaviness he didn't realize was there unburdening itself from his frame, so sudden and dramatic that he almost fell forward from the force of it. For the first time, he took a breath and the cool sensation of relief shimmered over his overwrought muscles. His heart slowed. His mind settled.

And for the first time, his eyes focused on the scratched, tarnished surface of the trinket he'd been carrying. For the first time, he realized he recognized it.

Before he could properly process his thoughts, the doorway appeared and a couple more people on their way in from dinner passed. Harry rushed and stumbled behind them to get outside.

His cloak had drifted halfway off in the midst of his running, but he hardly cared. There were places he needed to be, people he absolutely _had_ to talk to. He'd barely had a moment to _think,_ but his instincts rarely failed him. He had a _hunch_ about this.

And if he was right- Well. Then luck was _definitely_ on his side.

••••••••••

Normally, Harry wasn't much for materializing the Room of Requirement. Neville had been their resident expert at it last year, though sometimes Ron or Ginny would help out, on account of their having both more detailed imaginations and more rigorous convictions to make specific demands of the room, and Harry had happily left that task to people more suitable than him.

Now, though… He dared not ask. The frosty atmosphere between their trio compelled him to have a go at it, despite the discomfort. He didn't want to inadvertently make things more difficult by sparking an argument between Ron and Hermione, who were standing so far apart at the end of the hall that two whole people could fit comfortably in the void.

Harry passed by the patch of wall in unbearable anxiety. Things were so weird between them… It felt more pronounced than ever now that they were alone like this, nothing to distract from the tense silence. They'd hardly exchanged four words between them, Hermione's mien pensive where Ron's was aloof. For their relationship to have atrophied this badly, he must really have not been paying attention. The guilt turned his stomach, but he had to _focus_ if he wanted the room to do what he wanted.

On his last pass, a door appeared, much to his relief. But, when they opened it, the scenery was unexpected, to say the least.

The whooshing sound of running water filled the hallway before the rest of the sight could sink in: the grass covering the whole inner area, stopping abruptly at the entryway; the hexagonal, cream-colored gazebo in the center of a pond; the wood bridge leading them across the water, laden with vines and wildflowers; the little enclosed glade surrounded on all sides by gentle waterfalls which rippled the pond water like it was folded silk.

"Blimey, Harry," Ron commented straight off. "What did you wish for, a romantic holiday?"

He scratched behind his ear, feeling vaguely embarrassed. "I just asked for a place to meet where we wouldn't be bothered," he excused himself. "I thought it might give us the D.A. room."

"Well, we _were_ ultimately bothered there," Hermione pointed out during a casual stroll toward the gazebo. "So I can't fault the Room for not wanting to use it again."

"Yeah, but you have to admit it's a bit… _much,_ " Ron countered, dragging his feet along the grass.

Harry pulled the door closed behind them, and, when he did, it promptly vanished. He drew in a startled breath, staring. Well. At least he knew it would appear again when they needed it. The Room had never let them down before, after all.

His friends were more or less settled by the time he joined them at the gazebo. A bench curved around the inside, and Ron had taken up residence at one end while Hermione took the other. They both looked up at his approach, expectant.

"Right, ehm," Harry began from his position in the middle, arms crossed and eyes fixed to the light wooden slats at his feet. "There's… _a lot_ to tell you, and it's… Well. Not really sure where to start off."

"The most important part, perhaps?" Hermione suggested.

They were _all_ important. And, unfortunately, all likely to take a while to explain.

His discomfort must have shown in his face since Ron chimed in, "Or the easiest. Whichever works."

Harry sighed. "Okay. So it's like this- I've been er… I know I haven't really said much about the Order missions…"

"Thought you said there wasn't much to tell?" Ron questioned, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"There's… I mean, Snape didn't let me _do_ very much, yeah, but… there's this girl. We were looking into her going missing."

Hermione's head canted. "I remember you saying as much."

"Yes, but…" He faltered. "I thought she was dead for sure. Voldemort captured her, and she was missing for weeks, but she _escaped,_ and she's in St. Mungo's now, and-"

" _Hold_ on, mate," Ron interrupted. "You-Know-Who got this girl? _Himself?_ Hasn't he got cronies for that?"

"Let him explain, Ron!" Hermione chastised him.

He shifted his weight, restless. "Thankfully, Voldemort's not in my head anymore, so I don't know _why_ he was there, I just know that he _was,_ " Harry mentioned. "But the point is, she managed to get away, and yesterday, Cleo told me-"

"Oh, it's 'Cleo' now, is it?" Ron groused, his lips twisting.

 _"Ron,_ " Hermione warned.

Harry wasn't going to argue that one, instead continuing, "She told me that the girl, erm - Violet is her name - she said that the Malfoys were involved with it."

Hermione let out a hum, her expression contemplative, and Ron said nothing at all as he stared at his knuckles. Harry had expected more of a reaction, but perhaps it was better that he was allowed the room to speak.

"Malfoy's been absolutely mental this year, and Dumbledore refuses to do anything- _Snape_ hasn't lifted a finger for months, obviously, so… _I've_ just been down to the Slytherin dorms."

Hermione's tone was full-on admonishing. " _Harry-_ "

Ron's was too, albeit for an entirely separate reason. "Oi! And you didn't invite us?!"

"Sorry, the cloak's not so roomy as it used to be, Ron," Harry pointed out with a wry smile.

"That's _not-_ " Hermione covered her face with a loud, long-suffering sigh. When her hands plopped down back onto her lap, her eyes focused on him, slightly narrowed. "What were you _thinking?_ "

The mirth faded quickly from his face. "I was _thinking_ that there was something dodgy about those fights he's getting into, and I was _right._ "

At that, he pulled the watch from his pocket, brandishing it as if it were a badge. " _This_ is how he's been making people attack him. He's had it all year, I'd wager, but nobody bothered to search him, even though I _knew_ it was dark magic-"

" _How?_ " Hermione challenged.

Harry hesitated. "Well- I don't know _how,_ but it's got this-" He grimaced, trying to sort his thoughts. "Well- when you open it, it's like… it's in your head, messing with your emotions. Like everything you feel is about ten times worse, and I'm telling you, it's exactly the same as that time before. When…" He looked away, not particularly wanting to bring that day up, now that it came to it. "Y'know," he ended lamely.

Hermione seemed perturbed at the mere mention of the incident. Ron, however, held out a hand. "Can I see it?"

Harry gave it up readily enough. "Whatever it is, even Dumbledore wasn't able to detect it-"

"Imagine that," Hermione jabbed.

Harry frowned, but it was Ron who responded. "Suppose it would have to be a ward to have continuous function…"

"Can you do the er… what's it called? Ostendo?"

"'Expanding' the ward, it's called." He hovered his wand over the cracked and broken watch cover, his lips moving minutely as he whispered something under his breath. Then, "Doesn't seem like it works."

"Maybe it's got a password? Like yours?"

"Maybe…?"

"You two _seriously_ think that you can sniff out a dark magic that the Headmaster could not?" Hermione interjected, aghast. "Need I remind you-"

"Well, he's not actually _seen_ it yet," Harry countered. "But he said dark magic leaves traces, and this _didn't-_ "

"Might not be dark magic then?" Ron suggested, eyes still on the watch.

"I mean, it _has_ to be, since it made me attack Malfoy-"

"It didn't _make_ you do anything," Hermione argued, rolling her eyes. "And haven't you paid _any_ attention to what Professor Tenenbaum taught us about dark magic? It's not just 'magic that makes you do something bad.' It's focused preternatural catharsis. The Dark Arts are a means to harness unfathomable power as ancient as life itself." She leaned back against the bench, a scoff rattling deep in her throat. "And if you're _seriously_ suggesting that Malfoy is skilled enough to pull that off in such a way that even the most _well-renowned wizard in all of Magical Britain_ couldn't detect it-"

Ron shot her a look as he cut into her sentence. "Nobody's saying _Malfoy_ actually made this thing-"

Harry raised both his hands. "I know what it _is,_ I mean- Snape even said as much when I asked about my mum's ward, but-"

"But what?" Hermione questioned hotly. "How do you explain that this dark magic has been making everyone cry havoc against Malfoy without Dumbledore catching notice?"

Ron blew out a breath. "Dumbledore's not _all-knowing,_ Hermione. Even _he_ didn't know there was a great ruddy Basilisk running about in the pipes, or that Moody was actually a Death Eater who kept the real Mad-Eye locked up in a trunk the entire year. So you can't assume there's nothing going on just because Dumbledore doesn't know about it."

"Look, I even talked to Urquhart about this," Harry mentioned. "He doesn't know what happened to him, either. Said he completely lost control out of nowhere. So there's _got_ to be something going on."

"You even-" Hermione stopped herself, visibly flustered, before sucking in a breath. "So… you interrogated Urquhart and then infiltrated Slytherin, somehow _,_ without _telling_ us-"

" _Yeah,_ honestly mate," Ron said, leaning forward. "Slytherin's a bloody fortress. How'd you manage _that?_ "

There was a clear excitement to his tone, a vicarious glee in hearing the daring tale brought to light, but at that moment, Harry felt a terrible dread. To explain how he'd gotten the watch would also mean admitting to his thievery. But... as much as he'd fully intended to come clean with Ron, now didn't seem like the proper time. Things were going so well for the three of them right now; it was _finally_ starting to feel like old times, like they were a _team_ again. And he just knew the truth was bound to ruin whatever tentative reconciliation they'd achieved.

Resolved, Harry replied in a carefully blasé manner. "Just a bit of invisibility and dumb luck, really."

Ron laughed. "Oh, _come on._ You can't expect me to believe it was simple as that."

"No Polyjuice, no back up, no _anything,_ " Hermione observed, sounding bitter. "In a common room overseen by Snape? No, it _can't_ be as simple as that."

"I snuck into the common room behind some other Slytherins," he explained, trying not to bristle at her tone. "The last time we went in, we were _twelve._ Now, I've got five years of Quidditch reflexes to help me dodge people; it's not _that_ unbelievable I could manage myself."

Hermione didn't seem impressed. "And then?"

Harry glowered. "Well, if you don't _believe_ me, then-"

Ron interrupted him with a wave of his hand. "Don't mind _her._ I just want to know how you got a hold of this." He peered at the watch again. "Where'd you even find it?"

"Malfoy's room," he answered, purposely vague.

"His…" Ron's face screwed up in disgust. "Wait- are you telling me he's got a _private room?_ "

Scratching the back of his head, Harry snorted. "Yeah. All of Slytherin has, actually."

" _All of-!_ You've got to be _joking!_ "

"How did you even find his room?" Hermione pressed. "Their dorms are _designed_ to be a labyrinth."

Somehow, he wasn't surprised that she knew that. Still, he didn't particularly like how suspicious she sounded. "I followed him, obviously," he divulged, crossing his arms. "He came through not long after I got there."

"So you followed him into his room," she repeated.

Ron rolled his eyes. "You don't have to make it sound _creepy,_ Hermione."

Her head snapped in his direction. "I'm not."

"Malfoy's a right twat, so who cares about his _privacy,_ " Ron mentioned, caustic.

"That's _not_ why I-"

Harry was quick to forestall them. "I wasn't there to _spy_ on him. I just wanted to have a look around."

" _And_ looks like you found what you were looking for," Ron said, tapping the front clasp of the watch with a finger. Then, a look of contemplation overtook his features. "Come to think of it, how'd you know what you were looking for? Kind of hard to cast revealing spells without getting caught."

Unprepared for this sudden line of thought, Harry said the first thing that came to mind. "Well, Malfoy had it on him, so I figured I ought to have a look."

The intensity of Hermione's stare was staggering. "On him?"

Too late, he realized the implications of what he'd just said. "Well- I just meant, it was… nearby. He, uh, put it down."

Ron's expression shifted closer to confusion. "Malfoy was still in the room with you?" he questioned slowly.

"No," Harry lied automatically. "He left. And erm…"

"If he was keeping it with him to start fights, why would he go all the way to his room just to put it down, and then leave?"

Hermione's eyebrow raised. Harry cleared a throat that had suddenly gone dry. "Who knows why he does what he does? Maybe it was just for safekeeping."

A small clicking sound cut through the air, Ron having just figured out how to work the mechanism. The case sprang open, revealing the lightly scratched but ornate watch face. There was a suspended pause, in which the lines in Ron's brow deepened before he turned his gaze directly at Harry.

"How did Malfoy not hear you, Harry?"

Silence. He had no idea what to say. He'd run out of excuses.

"They're private rooms, so the door was probably locked. You had to have been right behind him to get in."

This was bad. "Ron, you should probably-"

"Hard to cast spells or move around in a closed space to search," he talked over him. "You'd be caught if you so much as _breathed_ too loud, yeah?"

Desperate, Harry cast a quick look at Hermione. Her arms rested primly in her lap, expression gone entirely blank.

"Yeah… Now that I think of it, Snape's almost caught us loads of times after curfew. One tiny noise is all it takes for him to sniff us out." When his gaze returned to Ron, his friend was openly glaring at him. "So, tell me. How is it you and him were in the _same_ room, and he didn't hear you at all?"

This was the exact opposite of how Harry would have wanted this exchange to occur. With a sinking feeling, he knew he had to try to set things right while there was still hope of salvaging the situation. His voice was beseeching when he said, "Ron, I didn't-"

"Give it back," Ron interrupted him, suddenly standing, his open palm outstretched toward him.

Hermione's eyes followed the jerky movements of Ron's body. "'It?'"

Harry stooped to grab his bag, digging in it with a solemn air. "I was already meaning to-"

"Save it," Ron demanded, sounding properly angry this time. "I just want my ward back."

He found it in the very bottom, sandwiched beneath one of his textbooks. What was left of the flower's petals were battered and bruised, and the stem was deeply creased in the center. With a grimace, he handed the thing to Ron, not meeting the boy's eyes. Quite suddenly, the shame deluged him all at once, and he murmured, "Sorry, I didn't, er… Thought I'd put it in a different pocket…"

For a moment, the room was deathly quiet, even the continuous noise of running water muffled by the weight of their silence. Then, when Ron spoke, his tone was very dark. "You destroyed my ward." Harry looked up to find Ron staring at the mangled flower in his hand, lips pressed into a thin line.

He sucked in a tense breath. "I- I'm sorry…"

"You took it without asking, _lied_ about it, and then smashed it to bits."

"I didn't _mean_ to. It's just- Hermione was right. It's like a _maze_ in there, and I didn't want to get lost on the way back, so I thought taking off some petals would be fine-"

"Are you fucking _dim,_ mate?" Ron snapped, his hand curling into a fist around the flower's stem. "It's a ward foundation. It's what you attach the spells to. Pick it apart, and you destroy the whole _fucking_ ward. How hard is that to grasp?"

"I didn't _know_ that!" Harry shot back, defensive.

"I've been working on this for a solid _month,_ but now I have to _start over_ because _some arsehole_ wanted to swan off to Slytherin-!"

Harry heard Hermione's voice below them, the quiet uptick in her tone imploring for clarity. "Harry? What is he talking about?"

"Yeah, _Harry,_ " Ron repeated, mocking. "What _am_ I talking about?"

Harry cast his guilty eyes to the floor. "It's just a thing he was making for extra credit," he mumbled.

" _Just a thing?!_ " Ron bellowed, irate, before Hermione could form a reply. "This project counts for my half-term grade!"

She was quick to turn to him. " _What?!_ "

Ron directed his glare at her. "Yeah, I know, it's _so_ bloody _shocking_ to you and Harry that I'm doing actual _schoolwork_ for once, _I get it-!_ "

"That's _not-!_ " she shouted. "I just-!" Suddenly, Hermione was facing Harry, a harsh breath pummeling out of her. "Harry! How could you do something like that?!"

He tensed at the accusation in her voice. "I was just going to use it once and give it back! I didn't know it would stop working!"

"You shouldn't have used it at all!" Ron hollered. "You know what? It's all making sense, now. You took it last night when I left my bag with you. I've been fucking mental all night, asking absolutely every person in the world, and then looking for it _all day_ today _,_ and here _you_ had it the entire time!"

Well that made it sound like he'd done it all on purpose! "I was just talking to Cleo, and saw it in there!"

"Oh, it's just _Cleo this_ and _Cleo that_ with you nowadays, isn't it?" Ron spat. "What, did _she_ put you up to this, then?"

" _No!_ " Harry shot back, fists clenching. "And suspecting her for every little thing only makes you look _stupid,_ Ron-"

"What's he supposed to think?" Hermione balked. "Because now I have questions too. You _promised_ me you were going to tell me if you were using Cleo as a means to find out what Slytherin was up to!"

"I- I _wasn't-!_ " Harry denied.

"Then what the hell is this?!" Ron demanded. "You're even mates with _Urquhart_ now-!"

"He's _not_ my friend!" he objected. "I just wanted to prove that Malfoy was forcing people into fights!"

Hermione grit her teeth. "Not _this_ again-"

"Why won't you believe me?!" Harry challenged, angry. "All anyone's done is look at me like I'm some _monster,_ instead of paying attention to what Malfoy's doing! This watch _proves_ I'm telling the truth!"

"All it _proves_ is that you'll step on whoever you like to preserve your precious golden boy image!" Ron snarled.

"The watch hasn't done anything!" Hermione demurred. "If it did what you said, both Ron and I would be attacking you _right now._ "

His gaze snapped to the watch, which was still open in Ron's clenched hand. It ought to be working by now; Malfoy had flown into a rage almost immediately before. "It is! It _has_ to be! I _tested_ it, and- and none of us were angry _before_ he opened it-!"

" _Yeah,_ " Ron mocked. "It's all the _watch._ How could we be so blind? Clearly, it's _nothing_ to do with you being an entitled piece of _shit!_ "

" _Stop!_ " Harry demanded, an ugly feeling beginning to swell inside him. "You have to shut the watch- _now!_ It's just making everything _worse-!_ "

Hermione's hands clenched at her sides. "What's making it _worse_ is your complete inability to take responsibility for anything you do!"

"That's _not_ true-!"

Ron snorted. "Yeah? What do you call this, then?!"

"I said I was sorry!"

" _You're not!_ " Ron erupted, jabbing a finger in Harry's face. "If it's to do with the bloody _war,_ you think you're justified in _everything!_ " Ron's posture was too reminiscent of Vernon; Harry took an automatic, flinching, step back, but his friend continued to advance, his shouting only growing louder. "You just run straight into danger, not sparing a single thought for _anyone_ else!"

"Are you kidding me?!" Harry responded in kind, that ugly feeling bubbling ever higher inside him. "All I ever _do_ is think of other people!"

"Bullshit! You tore apart a _month's_ worth of work like it was _nothing-!_ "

"Saving lives is more important then your stupid _prank_ for Tenenbaum-!"

He didn't realize how close Ron and him had stepped up to each other until Hermione was between them, arms outstretched. Notably in _Ron's_ corner, her eyes were blazing as she stared up at Harry. " _Stop it!_ "

He didn't feel like he could. The terrible rage inside him had nowhere to go but _out._ "Anything we do is either an affront to you, or you can't be arsed to care! And you get mean and _petty_ about it like everything we accomplish is _offensive_ to you. We see all these people who are suffering and _dying_ out there, but here's you- throwing a tantrum about some daft little _school project!_ "

He saw the movement coiled in his friend's posture long before impact, but wasn't fast enough to evade it. In the space of one heated breath, Ron's fist caught Harry square in the jaw, the pain arriving the instant he staggered back.

Ron's expression was absolutely livid. From his hunched position, Harry could see how tense he was, the crazed look in his eyes; the only reason he hadn't continued the assault was because Hermione was blocking the way. She'd turned toward him, bracing her hands against his shoulders. Furious, he spat, "Don't you dare. Don't you _dare_ talk down to me, treat me like _I'm_ the one at fault here just because you can't manage to fucking _think_ before you act!"

Hermione pled, "Ron, _please-_ "

Harry righted himself, braced for another attack, but it never came. With a frustrated growl, Ron wrenched himself in the opposite direction, crossing to the other end of the gazebo with heavy footsteps before leaning over the rail. His back was to them, shoulders wound tight, and Harry absolutely _hated_ it.

"Running away, is it?" he found himself saying. " _Typical._ "

" _Don't,_ " Hermione seethed, rounding on him.

"Why are you even _defending_ him, Hermione?!" Harry demanded, his arms shaking with the force of his anger. "He's been _awful_ to you-!"

"So have you!" she cried. "And frankly, the way he's treated me is between him and me. It's not some bloody trump card you can play to prove a point! _Especially_ when you're outright refusing to acknowledge how awful it was to steal _and_ destroy his project! It clearly meant a great deal to him, and you don't seem to care at all!"

"Of course I care! But it was just a _mistake!_ "

"How in the world was it a mistake?!"

"I didn't know it would stop working-"

"But you still _chose_ to take that chance!" Hermione argued, harsh. "You _chose_ to take it from Ron's bag without asking! You _chose_ to risk it by entering the Slytherin common room without a plan! You _decided_ that trampling all over Ron's friendship was worth getting this worthless little trinket!"

"It's not worthless, it's _dangerous!_ " Harry retorted. "Ron _has_ to close it-!"

Ron jerked around to face them. "I don't _have_ to do anything!"

"Give it to me!" he demanded, hand outstretched.

Ron's scoff was loud. "Piss off, Harry! I'm _done-_ "

"If it's so _worthless_ to you, then give it back!"

"You're missing the whole fucking _point-!_ "

Suddenly, without hardly giving it a thought, Harry's wand was in his hand. Ron's reaction was immediate, brandishing his own with a determined tilt of his brow.

Hermione did a rapid spin in Ron's direction. "Put your wand down and give him the stupid thing back!"

"Tell _him_ to put it down first!"

"He's not going to listen!" she protested. "Put it down! He'll actually _hurt_ you-"

"Stop _saying_ that!" Harry yelled, her words cutting him deep. "I just- I just _want-!_ "

Honestly, what was the bloody _point_ in trying to explain? They didn't believe him- actually thought he was going to fucking _hex_ them, for Merlin's sake! He was only considering it _now_ because they were acting _absolutely insane!_

It would be easy. Just _one_ Expelliarmus, and he could get the ruddy thing while Ron was disarmed. His wrist flexed before he extended it again, his mouth poised on the spell.

However, there was a sudden jolting sting that radiated up his wand arm as it was awkwardly lifted upwards and over his shoulder, held in place by Hermione's hand as the entirety of her body pressed up against his side, pushing him away.

He was barely able to register the surprise of it before his irritation settled, white hot, at the back of his neck. He tried pulling his arm away. All he managed to do was to pull Hermione with him sideways as he struggled. "Let go!"

"No!"

"Hermione!"

His anger mounted the more he pulled. Hermione moved with him, her nails digging into his wrist as she twisted his hand back up against his shoulder. "You're _not_ doing this again!"

He grunted loudly when he bent back as he pulled, dragging Hermione up on her toes. " _Stop_ it!"

"Harry!"

She was losing some purchase. He pushed forward, yanking his forearm down. "I mean it!"

" _No!_ "

He felt a rush over his eyes; the next few moments functioned in horrible missteps: Hermione losing her footing, her grip slipping down to his elbow; Harry's anger flooding up through his shoulder, lifting his arm high enough to give one final push.

There was a dull pain against his elbow as it collided against something that elicited a fleshy, sickening _thump._ Hermione's fingers slipped away, feet carried with her as she fell to the ground, her palm suddenly cupped over her mouth and nose.

When the blood slipped under her chin, he felt something close to a disgusting amount of satisfaction. A feeling that couldn't make itself stick; no affinity. It slipped away, nebulous, as his blood chilled in his veins. As his stomach churned uncomfortably. As his panic took over, so much stronger, so much more authentic. He felt himself snap back into place, like waking up.

Ron's accusatory look sobered him even further. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Harry? She's bleeding!"

Ron was knelt beside her in a second, though the comforting hand he lifted to her back never made contact, frozen in uncertainty. Harry, however, could only stand in stunned silence.

He felt sick. What… what _was_ wrong with him? Why had he pushed her like that? He'd _really_ hurt her. A pit began to form at the base of his lungs, through which air began to escape him in droves. His mind was a fog. "I'm sorry," was his horrified, impotent whisper. "I'm… I'm sorry-"

Hermione's wrist swiped under her nose, spreading the blood across her cheek. " _Are_ you?"

" _Yes,_ " he insisted, his voice sounding too loud in the room. "Of course I am-"

"Whatever, Harry." She sniffed hard and he almost gagged as she started coughing at the taste of her own blood. Seconds later, she recovered, smearing more rivulets across her face as she frustratedly swiped the back of her hand against her nose.

"You don't believe me," Harry intoned, hollow.

"'Course she doesn't _believe_ you," Ron jabbed. "You're so busy blaming everyone but _yourself_ that you won't even listen to anything we're saying!"

 _It was the watch,_ he wanted to say, but the sight of his friends, angry and hurting right in front of him, stopped him. "I'm sorry," he told them instead, trying to sound less desperate. "I'm listening now, okay? I _promise-_ "

"No offense, Harry," Hermione uttered, deadpan. "But I don't put a lot of stock in your promises at the moment."

The pit inside him grew even larger, rendering his reply breathy and weak. "What…? What do you mean?"

"What else?" she scoffed. "You've yet to make good on any of your promises, so why the hell would you start now?"

His gaze darted around her face, distressed. "I really didn't use Cleo for information. I- I didn't _mean_ to do that, anyway; she's just… my _friend-_ "

Ron snorted. " _Great._ "

"What about attacking Malfoy? Ron's project?" Hermione listed, teeth gritting as she tilted her head back. "Not even _telling_ us about any of this? What were you thinking?"

"I- I just _thought…_ " He faltered, shoulders tense. "After what Cleo said, it just felt like life or death, and… and I wasn't sure how to tell you since we've been _fighting_ so much-"

"That doesn't even make sense, Harry," Ron called him out. "You and I haven't been fighting until _just now._ So you had every reason to tell me what you were up to."

Harry couldn't deny it, but neither could he provide a better explanation. He'd felt certain before that he was better off going it alone, but he couldn't really understand why either.

"You've been like this ever since the Ministry," Hermione accused. Her expression contorted briefly before she turned her head and spit something red and nasty into the grass. "You've completely locked us out. Now you're doing god knows what for the Order and everything else we used to do _together_ completely alone now."

"It's not _like_ that," Harry protested, looking at them both. "I've just been… getting caught up in the moment, and-"

"No, she's right," Ron cut him off. "You used to tell us everything. You used to treat us like we were a team, because we _were._ And you _knew_ if you were really in trouble, we'd come for you, because... Well, we've done it today, haven't we? No matter how bad things get, we've always had each other's backs… But you've barely talked to us all year."

Harry wasn't sure what else he could say. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Hermione sighed. "You've said."

"You… _still_ don't believe me."

"That's _not-_ " Hermione's eyes rolled up to the sky as she let out another loud sigh. With jilted, jerky movements, she _finally_ produced her wand from her robe and conjured a handkerchief into the blood-stained mess of her palm, wetting it with a harshly whispered _Aguamenti._ "I don't- I mean, I'm not really-" She faltered as she aggressively wiped at her hands, her cheeks, her nose. "I don't _want_ to be mad, you know?" She sniffed hard and grimaced, folding over the bloodied cloth to a cleaner, underside portion to keep rubbing away at her lip. "It's just- do we have to keep pretending that we're not all thinking the same thing?"

Harry froze. The sudden question sent his mind spinning; even Ron gave Hermione a wary look. He too must have picked up on the ominous undercurrent of her words, but it was Harry who prompted, "What is it we're meant to be thinking, exactly?"

"That none of this is working?" she stated, incredulous, like it bothered her that she had to say so at all. "That _this_ \- what we have together - is fundamentally broken?"

"What?" he questioned on impulse, that pit in his lungs growing ever wider. "What does that even _mean?_ "

"You're seriously going to pretend that you haven't noticed how bad everything's been the past two years?" When he didn't answer, she quickly grew exasperated, leaning forward as she scowled. "We aren't eleven anymore. We're a lot older and _a lot_ different. Are you two really going to tell me that you haven't noticed?"

Harry didn't know how to respond to that, but Ron lifted his head, saying, "Of course I've _noticed._ Be a bit daft not to."

"That doesn't mean anything's _broken,_ " Harry found his voice, though it sounded more forlorn than he liked. "That's- I know it's been hard since- since _Voldemort_ came back, but we've grown up together, and of _course_ we've changed some but… what's wrong with that? Why is that a _problem?_ "

"Because they aren't just trivial differences!" Hermione exclaimed. "Maybe they are to _you,_ but not to _me._ "

"We've always been _different_ from each other, Hermione. That's what makes us a good team," Harry argued. "So I… I don't see how that's a _bad_ thing."

"Oh, you can't?" she mocked, her scowl deepening. "What about S.P.E.W.?"

"What _about_ it?" Harry asked, breathless.

She appeared breathless too, but for an entirely different reason. " _That's_ why." She looked like she wanted to point, but her hands were too busy wringing the bloodied handkerchief. Her voice went about the accusatory work. "You don't take me seriously. _Neither_ of you do. _Especially_ you, Ron."

Ron reared up slightly. " _What-?_ "

"You don't!" she barked. "Or are you going to act as if the past two years of constantly deriding me, devaluing my projects, and treating me like nothing more than a glorified nag have been some gigantic fluke?"

Harry took a step forward, earnest. "We _do_ take you seriously-"

Her shoulders went tense. "Can either of you name _one_ thing that you like about me, as a person, that isn't rooted in some utilitarian function?" Hermione seethed. "Or can you even look at me, _as a person,_ and say with certainty that you'd be my friend, even if we never worked together or went on some sort of adventure ever again?"

"Of course we would!" Harry protested, effusive.

Ron's answer was subdued, if a little accusatory. "I suppose you've finally written us off, then."

Hermione's glower was fierce. "You did it first."

He scoffed. "I'm not the one who's been avoiding my friends all year."

"Yeah, because I've _chosen_ to avoid you."

"You _have,_ " Ron argued alongside a frustrated sigh. "I barely see you except at meals, and sometimes not even then!"

Hermione let a sharp breath escape her nose, allowing an unseemly bit of dried blood to plummet to her skirt. "Yes, imagine the fact I'm not exactly keen on spending time with someone who constantly treats me like I'm nothing more than an annoyance!"

"I don't! Or I wouldn't have if you'd just _listened_ to anything I had to say after I dropped Prefect-"

"Listened!" Hermione balked. "Implying you'd even _talk_ to me? Actually tried to be _vulnerable?_ When?!"

"How could I, when you were _never_ around?! Even before you started actively avoiding us- it's your nine classes, your study groups, your sodding _clubs!_ It's like you barely cared we existed except to lecture us about how _irresponsible_ we are!"

"No offense, but _fuck_ you, Ron," Hermione uttered, breathless and livid. "I was struggling _just_ as much and I don't remember you running to check on me, either."

Ron huffed and looked away, his fingers tensely laced in front of him.

"Besides," the girl vented, her eyes pointedly going to the grass, "it's not like I _could_ tell you anything. Not when I already knew what your reaction would be?" Her mouth twitched in a grimace that died halfway through. "I know both of you thought it was stupid, but S.P.E.W. meant a _lot_ to me. And all I gleaned from the aftermath was that neither of you gave a damn about what I believed in, much less what was going on with me. That it's safer to keep my mouth shut and deal with these things on my own."

Harry's stomach twisted painfully. He knew all too well what she meant. However, it was Ron who spoke first, "I didn't think it was _stupid-_ "

"Could have fooled me," was Hermione's caustic remark.

"Well, _mostly,_ " he backtracked. "Look, I get it, I was a right arse about it, but it's just- the elves don't _want_ to be freed-"

"You have no idea what you're talking about-"

"Point _is-_ just cause or not, what's the point of pursuing it when there's a bloody _war_ going on?" Ron said, shaking his head. "If we don't get rid of Voldemort, then leading a house elf revolution will be a colossal _waste_ of time, and-"

" _God_ you're so-" Hermione covered her face, a loud, frustrated whine emanating against her palms. Seconds later, her hands dropped back to her lap, and she addressed Ron again, "I'm not _fixating_ on S.P.E.W. specifically. I'm referring to what it _meant._ See, this is what I'm talking about. You _don't_ take me seriously! You see everything I do as naive and _frivolous;_ as if I have no idea what my position in this war is, as, you know, a _Mudblood?_ "

Ron's expression twitched, darkened, in response to the word. "I've _never_ called you that-"

"Don't you get it?" was her terse rejoinder. "That's how they _see_ me _._ That's the entire point of this war!"

There was a whole heap of discomfort evident in his voice, which had suddenly gone a little weaker. " _Yeah,_ I'm not _saying_ it's-"

"Ron, it's not _you_ they're after. If Voldemort wins- if this purism movement gains any more traction than it already has, it's not you they're going to… enslave, or forcibly register, or- or put into _camps,_ or… _ultimately-_ " Her breath caught as tears flooded her eyes again, reddened and irritated. They pooled and remained there as she stared, unblinking, at her knees.

"Hermione…"

She gritted her teeth, the scrunch of her face pushing her tears precariously close to falling. "Just- _please_ stop. I understand what's at stake in this war more than you can even _begin_ to fathom."

Ron sat in strained quiet for a moment, arms crossed tight over his chest. The pause was too long for Harry; he wanted to say something. Anything that could mend things, could help them reconcile in some small way.

But he could think of nothing to say. And Ron's manner was altogether defeated. "So that's it, then? We're finished?"

Hermione raised her head to stare at him, the handkerchief gripped tightly in her blood-stained fingers. She'd looked so full of conviction before, but now… She just looked dejected. Shaken. Alone. The fight was still in her, but Harry could finally see the toll all this was taking on her, the damage that their absence and negligence had wrought. In light of that, her next words were all the more surprising.

"Nothing's over yet," Hermione asserted, her voice terribly quiet. "Just- something has to change, or it _will_ be. E.A.R.W.I.G. is all I have now, and-"

"It's _not_ all you have-!" Ron's reply rushed out of him in an instant.

"I mean it's all I can _do!_ " she cried, her throat betraying the first hint of a sob. "This is the only way I can fight, Ron. After the Ministry-" Harry watched helplessly as her body trembled in its first sign of fear and distress, her tears flowing earnest, the most pained he'd ever witnessed. "I was _completely_ useless. I'm not a soldier, not like you two. I could've _died,_ and everyone I care about could've _died_ because they wouldn't leave me behind. Do you get how much that terrifies me? Just _knowing_ that I couldn't last, that I became a burden on everyone- it… it _just-_ "

She hunched over, a few loud sobs muffled against her knees as she pulled them up to her chest. Harry cast a quick glance at Ron, who looked absolutely stricken, before obeying his own instinct to _move._ Dropping to his knees beside her, he placed a hand gently on her shoulder, suddenly feeling like crying himself, though he resisted the impulse. Moments later she emerged, tear stricken and red faced, her voice hiccuping on the waves of her weeping: "Bu-... But- I have to- to do s-something! An- And E.A.R.W.I.G.-" She breathed in sharply. "E.A.R.W.I.G. is all I know ho- how to _d-do-_ and… an-and I- I'm terrified to d-do anything that would… alienate an-anyone because of… wh-what happened with S-.. S.P.E.W. and- so when Ann… and I c-can't fight back be-... because I don't w-want it to be like _last_ time-"

" _It won't,_ " Harry assured her, his free hand clenching with the force of his conviction.

"It already _is!_ " she sobbed. "Th-This stupid bloody- _Ma-Masquerade!_ It's- It's thrown _e-everything_ off track! An-And... I tried- I did! I tried- I _tried_ to make her st- stop! But people.. An- and they _agreed_ … and I was- I was sc-scared that if I did- did _anything_ to ruin it... everyone would- leave... like _last_ time and… An-And if I can't d-do E.A.R.W.I.G., how can I do _anything_ and-"

"Hey, _hey-_ Hermione…" At that, Ron approached too, his address both soothing and uncertain. "What are you talking about? There's _loads_ you can do that we can't-"

"I can't!" she screamed, completely unhinged. Her breath came out in heavy pants. "I can't! I can't! I _can't-!_ "

A terrible feeling overtook Harry then, a feeling of anguish and fear so all-encompassing that it was like _drowning-_ and what was worse was how familiar the sensation really was. There was something about it so reminiscent of what had happened with Remus, of what had happened at the _cottage,_ that he flinched back, his hand losing contact with her shoulder. At the same moment, Ron appeared to do the opposite, his own hand going to rest on her back.

"Hermione, it's _okay-_ "

Her legs straightened, so violent and sudden that the two of them were forced to move so they weren't kicked. "I don-... I don't kn-know what to _do…_ " she cried. "I- I know- I wasn't… an-.. And I'm _sorry-_... I didn't- m-mean to-... I didn't... know what to _do_ and- and I d-didn't want to _hu-hurt_ you- an-and… an-and I- I _love_ you and- and I can't- _I can't-_... _lose-_... Because _everything-_... and I know- I didn't… I- wa-wasn't… and- _I'm sorry-_ "

Ron's eyes were wide when he looked at Harry, clearly at a loss. But Harry, coming to his senses, suddenly felt as if he knew what needed to be said. " _Breathe,_ " he urged her in a voice that was quiet, but firm. "You just need to breathe, okay? You- you haven't done anything wrong. Just… We're here. We're _here,_ and it will be okay."

Taking this cue, Ron swept his hand across her shoulder blades. "You… you don't have to worry. We're not going anywhere…"

Suddenly, her arms were wrapped around Ron's neck, the entirety of her frame buried into him as her sobs came out in horrible, soul wrenching screams. So loud, even as they were muffled against the mass of his robes, that he felt the whole of his body heat and tremble as if he were holding Hermione to him in the same way Ron was.

The sound was unbearable; to hear it was akin to physical pain. There was something horrifying about the force of her reaction, a sense that this wasn't just _her_ agony ringing in their ears, but rather a manifestation of all three of their thoughts and feelings. A collection of their deepest torments, unutterable yet inextricably woven together. Overwhelmed, Harry didn't know if he ought to reach forward or shrink away. His own breaths rattled out of him disjointedly while tears stung at his eyes.

Ron had both arms wrapped tightly around Hermione, but his expression was similarly haunted, gaze pinned to the grass. He held her there for longer than felt humanly possible, until her body exhausted itself in its despair, and she slowly began to quiet, the last of her sobs issuing forth in longer, slower intervals before they stopped.

In the silence that followed, Harry spoke, barely louder than a whisper. "I'm _sorry…_ This- _everything-_ It's my fault."

Ron turned a glare in his direction. "Not everything's about you, you know."

"I know," Harry breathed, swiping away tears with the back of his hand. " _I know._ But it's… I should never have gone to the Ministry. I should have _listened_ to you. And most of all, I… I should have been paying attention."

When Hermione spoke, it was with a voice that was inordinately exhausted. She looked as if she were about to pass out on Ron's shoulder. "Harry… We all really… weren't paying attention to each other. It's not just… you."

"But… you're my _friends,_ " he emphasized, as if that alone explained it all. "I should trust you and, and _be_ there for you, but I've just been doing nothing this _whole_ year. All I've been doing since we met is just- leading you into danger. But it's… it's not an _adventure_ anymore- We're not _children._ People are dying all the time, and Sirius is gone, _forever,_ and I can't _bear_ the thought that everyone I love will disappear because of _me._ "

Ron's tone was softer when he stressed, "It's not because of _you;_ it's because of _Voldemort._ And when you finally put that maggoty piece of shit in the grave, where he _belongs,_ we'll still be right there with you. Because you didn't _force_ us into harm's way, Harry, we wanted to be there. _Because-_ " At this, he gave Harry a pointed look. "We're your friends, and we trust you, and we intend to be there for you. As you said."

Harry sighed, staring at his hands. "I'm sorry about your ward, Ron. Really."

His friend rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know."

"I mean it-"

"I _know,_ I said," Ron insisted, his expression hardening. "Just don't do it again."

Harry nodded, solemn, before continuing, "And Hermione, I'm sorry I haven't been talking to you. I'm… sorry I've been so bad at keeping my promises."

"I just got… scared…" she admitted, eyes half lidded. "You really think it's... the watch?"

His eyes were drawn to it then, the thing having fallen completely out of his mind. There, a few feet away and dropped in the grass, was the silver pocket watch, open-faced. Wordlessly, he stood to retrieve it, the little thing feeling weighty in his hands. Was this truly the source of all this rage and heartache? Despite his earlier convictions, looking at the lifeless clock hands and the burnished shine of the metal, he found it difficult to believe something so small could cause so much trouble. Harry pressed the two ends of the watch together, and, with an anticlimactic _snap,_ it finally closed.

The effect was instantaneous. Ron's brow unknitted, Hermione's shoulders drooped. Harry felt his chest expand, like the pit which had formed there no longer existed. The air was breathable again, and the sound of water rushed into their ears for the first time in a long while.

Harry stared at his friends, a knowing look ghosting over their faces. "There's more to talk about," he said. "but… tomorrow. Let's do it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Hermione softly whispered.

"Right, yeah." Ron blew out a breath. " _Tomorrow._ "


	16. Masquerade

Wow this was a long one, lol. We appreciate everyone's patience as we trawled through this one. Though, oddly enough? This wasn't the longest we took to write... but this is definitely the longest chapter. Strap in, folks! It's gonna be a bumpy ride!

For chapter images, check us out on AO3! Also look for us on Tumblr, username: cricket-and-merry!

Coming Soon - Chapter 17: Verisimilitude

••••••••••

"This is a lot to take in," Hermione admitted at length, arms sweeping behind her so she could rest her weight against her hands. The Haunt was not so busy that day, but even so, when they'd first arrived, Cleo had made a point to loudly proclaim that they were discussing E.A.R.W.I.G. matters for the benefit of anyone listening. They'd settled themselves in Cleo's favorite alcove, which Cal had lovingly nicknamed "Merlin's Armpit" many years before. It was an odd little corner with two adjacent window seats; a once coveted spot now marred by age: Both windows were cracked, forming a terrible draft, and where the two walls met, the stones were overwrought by a thick, creeping ivy. Still, it was its undesirability that made it so attractive; she'd hardly ever been bothered there, and the space was always open for the taking.

The three Gryffindors seated around her had spent the better part of an hour listening to her recount what she could about Violet's case. Strange as it was for their little group to meet in The Haunt in the first place, it was even stranger to be saying all this to two people she hardly knew, and all under the dubious cover of a makeshift Silencing ward to boot. Weasley had been asking the majority of the questions from his position standing in the corner, whereas Hermione had been echoing Cleo's sentences at random intervals, committing them to memory from her window perch. Harry, for his part, had been largely quiet where he sat at the opposite window, his eyes fixed to a small flower which lay on the floor in the middle of their circle.

"This is just the abridged version, really," Cleo prefaced, leaning against the sofa's side table. "There's stuff Violet hasn't told me; information the Aurors have that I don't."

There was a brief quiet as they continued to mull over what she'd said. Weasley held his chin in his hands, directing his stare at Harry. "So… this girl? She's the one you've been, er…?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

"But _you_ said the girl doesn't know who took her?" Weasley mentioned, looking back at Cleo. "I thought it was You-Know-Who?"

Harry frowned. "I didn't actually mention-"

"It wasn't," Cleo objected at once. "Violet was very adamant about the fact she had no idea who her captors were. Just one man and one woman." She paused momentarily before sighing. "I mean, she did mention another man who she apparently had only seen once or twice, but if it _were_ Voldemort, I doubt she wouldn't be able to readily identify him."

"I know for a fact it was him who took her," Harry disagreed, solemn. "We tracked the both of them right up until they Disapparated. The scene was…" His expression fell quite suddenly, eyes haunted. "There's no question he was there."

Hermione's hair fell against her back as her head dipped to rest against her own shoulder. "So we have our first conflicting facts," she quietly observed before her gaze flickered toward Harry. "Remind me what you were tracking?"

"Her, ehm…" He squinted as if trying to organize his thoughts. "He was following… a trail or something?"

"He?" Cleo abruptedly asked. "He who?"

The other three all shared a look, their deliberation happening in the span of a blink. Hermione seemed worried, and Weasley was particularly sour, but evidently Harry felt able to take the initiative, since he faced her squarely, warning, "You can't tell anyone."

"Haven't been, won't start," she assured him, though she felt uneasy. Why was he looking at her like that…? "I mean-"

"It's… going to sound…" he told her, the words halting and bothered. "Just… he _can't_ know that you know, alright? I really shouldn't even be telling you this, but… if it will help you believe me-"

"Right…?"

Harry's mouth twisted. "The person I've been investigating with? It's… Snape."

The anger hit her body before it fully permeated her mind. On reflex, the butt of her palm slammed against the table as she leaned forward, seething, " _Are you fucking serious?_ "

Harry winced and Weasley glared at her, admonishing, " _Will you be quiet?_ The ward can only do so much, you know!"

Hermione huffed. "Well, it _is_ a bit of a shock."

"So what? We're sitting in _Slytherin territory!_ "

Recovering, Harry said, "It's fine, Ron. It'll hold up." Then, after a pause, his gaze meandered back to Cleo. "Sorry I didn't tell you before. It's not really…"

"I'm not mad at you," she was quick to assure him once she settled. Cleo forced her expression to soften. "This just… explains a lot."

This seemed to pique Weasley's interest. "Oh, yeah?"

She scowled. These three weren't the ones this conversation was meant for, not that she could ever confront Snape about this anyway. Harry's guilt about Violet made all the more sense. What the _fuck_ was Snape thinking…?

"It doesn't matter," she dismissed, rubbing the back of her neck. "You and him were following a trail. A trail of what?"

Harry grimaced, sheepish. "Don't really know. I can't cast spells out there since I'm underage, so Snape was the only one who could see it."

 _That_ sounded familiar. " _Pertento Solus?_ "

His demeanor was alight with recognition before the words were even out of his mouth. "Yeah! And… _somehow,_ in the dark, he was able to find the spot where she'd used accidental magic-"

"It reveals magical signatures," Cleo explained quickly. "It's the exact way he and I were able to track my son when he went missing." Which explained why he had even _come,_ now that she thought of it. Her jaw involuntarily tightened.

"He did _what?_ " Weasley nearly choked.

Hermione shot him a look. " _Ronald._ "

He glanced at her, frowning, before slumping further into the corner. "Snape being helpful is… hard to believe," he commented in the most diplomatic tone she'd ever heard from him.

"It's complicated," she excused, waving a hand. "The point is that we used the spell to track my son's magic to the last place he'd been. So you're saying that Voldemort's signature is how you know? His magic was there at the place she'd been taken?"

"Yeah," Harry said, tapping his fingers on his knees. "But it was weird- he said, before that, it was only her trail alone, even though we knew she left the house with someone."

Hermione squinted. "Who did she leave the house with?"

"Well." He sighed. "We looked at her cat's memories and saw Barty Crouch Jr. led her out of her house."

This meant absolutely nothing to Cleo but, judging by Hermione's wide eyes and Weasley's muttered _Blimey,_ this information was of some significance to them.

"How?" Hermione questioned after some very deliberate breaths. "He was- I mean he _should-_ " A few seconds passed as she gesticulated in a vague, restless manner, before she managed an unnerved, "He was Kissed, wasn't he?"

Kissed…?

Harry's hands stilled. "Yeah. But he was there. I'd… never forget his face."

"Maybe it wasn't really him, just… Polyjuice or something," Weasley suggested.

Hermione was quick to shut that down. "If that was the case, then there should have been a third signature."

 _Everything I saw was real…_

"But there wasn't," Harry corroborated. "Snape thought maybe she'd got away from him, but… Without her wand, it's hard to think how."

"Are you two _actually_ saying this girl was running around with a dead man?" Weasley balked.

 _He's not dead…_

"I don't know," Hermione quietly averred. "I'm only saying that there was no way there was another magical person there."

" _'Mione-_ "

"This guy," Cleo interrupted, her gaze intent on Harry's face. "What does he look like?"

He frowned at the rug in contemplation. "He's got a sort of… wild look. Angular face, bulging eyes, messy brown hair… Why?"

"'The man with brown hair'…" Cleo murmured, eyes widening. She pushed off the table. "That's him! That's the man who hurt Violet!"

"But it can't be," Weasley demurred, visibly agitated. "The bloke's dead as doxies! Has been for nearly two years!"

"Violet was certain," she argued. "And so is Harry."

"The point is," Harry smoothed over, "regardless of what happened or who was ultimately with her between her house and the forest, it led Voldemort right to her. He came to get her himself."

"Is she really so important?" Hermione abruptly asked, before slanting an apologetic look at Cleo. "Sorry, I mean- It's just that- She's a… regular girl, right? But there was all this fuss to get her out of her house and everything…"

"She _is_ Muggleborn," Harry pointed out with a shrug. "But otherwise… I don't know."

"Might have come to the door just to see in the house," Wealsey remarked, nose scrunched in thought. "To make sure she was alone."

Hermione stared at him. "What would be the point? She could just as easily have been taken right there."

"Not if it's supposed to be a secret," he countered. "If they don't want to make headlines about Death Eaters abducting a girl from her home, they'd have to be quiet about it."

Realization gleamed in Cleo's eyes. "Maybe not quiet. Just… not obvious."

Their attention was nonplussed, so she continued: "I mean, the Wizarding World doesn't keep track of every crime that happens in the Muggle one, right? So, if you make an abduction look like it was done by a Muggle, then there's no reason for anyone to suspect Death Eater involvement."

"So it keeps their movements under wraps," Weasley agreed. "But that still doesn't explain why they'd go to that effort just for _one_ girl."

"Because they didn't," Cleo said, gaze sweeping across the three of them. "She wasn't special. She said there were others; that she was kept away from them."

Hermione cast a swift look at Harry. "Did you ever hear about any other kidnappings?"

He lifted his head. "No. They… never mentioned any to me, anyway. But I don't know- I guess we probably wouldn't have been sent to look into it if it was just a single case."

Weasley leaned forward. "What about the tattoos?"

The unexpected change of subject was enough to draw incredulous stares from the other three. Cleo, however, was the one to prompt, "What about them?"

"You said Violet's got tattoos that You-Know-Who put on her, yeah? D'you know if they're magical?"

"They move, if that's what you mean."

"They anything like the Dark Mark?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Not really?" Cleo replied, going to sit down on the couch. "Just a raven, an eagle, a lion, a badger and a snake, all in different places."

"Hogwarts houses?" Hermione chimed in. "Though- the raven's a bit odd, but I could swear I read something about that ages ago…"

"Old snakeface wouldn't go to all that trouble for nothing," Weasley surmised. "And the fact he kept her around long enough to escape means _something_ is happening. Just don't know what." He turned to Harry with a pointed air. "And Snape never said anything about this to you?"

By then, Harry was sitting more upright, but his silhouette were tense. "No."

Weasley scoffed. "'Course not."

"Violet said…" Cleo's voice trailed off as she leaned back, arms crossed. "I mean, she mentioned the fact that the 'real Narcissa', the one she was in captivity with, had those tattoos as well."

"Bloody strange that she's involved at all, if you ask me."

"Not necessarily," Hermione said. "Considering her husband's in Azkaban right now."

Harry fidgeted. "Well, that's partly why I… uhm." He gave Cleo a strange look, then. "I sort of… snuck into the Slytherin dorms yesterday? To see if Malfoy was hiding anything?"

Cleo only raised an eyebrow. "Should I even ask…?"

Another significant glance rippled through the Gryffindors. Harry seemed very cowed when he answered, "Let's just say it was… eventful."

Weasley held out a hand. "Have you got the watch?"

Harry nodded, pulling a little silver chain from his pocket. "Just, ah… don't open it. Obviously."

The other boy rolled his eyes, but took the thing carefully in hand. "It's not done anything while you had it overnight, has it?"

"Nope. Nothing."

Hermione glanced Cleo's way. "That's what Harry took from Malfoy's room," she wryly explained. "Since they forgot to mention."

"I imagine there's something important about it, then?"

"Well…" Hermione looked as if she wasn't sure what to say.

Weasley piped up. "Harry reckons Malfoy's been starting fights using this thing. But I figure, from what I've seen, it's probably not Dark magic. Uh… sorry, Harry."

He frowned. "If it's not Dark magic, then what is it?"

"Well, I've been reading some things-"

"Have you got a fever?" Hermione lightly teased him, reaching over to press the back of her hand against his brow.

"Oi, I _read,_ " he groused with another eye roll, ducking his head away. "The warding book Tenenbaum gave me uses a lot of stodgy old language, but she did say most of the concepts are still in modern use. And this thing? Doesn't act like any Dark magic, but it _does_ function exactly like an Amplifying ward."

"Amplifying ward?" Harry echoed, uncomprehending.

"We've not got this far in Defense yet," Weasley expounded, "but professionally, wards are classed based on their primary functions: Amplifiers, Dampeners, and Phylacteries. And the basic elements - touch activation, power release, dormant sub-state - that all indicates the watch is a standard Amplifier."

Cleo couldn't help but notice the way Hermione peered at Weasley with subdued astonishment when she asked, "An amplifier of what, though?"

"Emotions?" Harry posited. "Anger, fear… All the people he's been starting fights with, this is how he was making them all fly out of control."

"It seems like such a roundabout way of getting at it, though?" Cleo mentioned. "It'd be easier to just… outright attack people, wouldn't it?"

He shrugged. "Maybe he just didn't want trouble for throwing the first punch."

Hermione tucked her hair behind her ears. "I mean, he'd be punished either way. And besides, most of those fights are sending him to the Hospital Wing, anyway."

Weasley gave her a sidelong glance. "Thought you weren't paying attention to Malfoy and all that?"

She leveled a look at him in return. "Ron, if you remember, I had an extended stay in the Hospital Wing. And because I was still suffering from the effects of Harry's tainted Wit-Sharpening Potion, I could hear Madam Pomfrey whisper all the way in her office, so I know Malfoy was in and out several times during a three-day span. Once for a broken arm, another for a concussion, and two other times to claim some kind of prescription."

Cleo bent forward to address her. "Prescription?"

Harry submitted, "He had a drawer full of potions in his room. I saw him drink one of them, so those might be it."

"Remember any details?" Cleo pressed. "Color, smell, viscosity, texture-?"

"Uh…" He took in a breath as if he were bracing himself. "Well. I didn't really look at them much, but… I think there were some blue ones, and a… pink foggy one…"

"I need something on the Chroma Scale, Harry," Cleo asserted. "Blue what? True blue, or closer to cyan, or magenta, what? Same with pink."

Harry's eyes drifted toward the ceiling as he considered this. "Er… The uh, smoky one was… light rose?" he murmured. "And the other two… He drank one that looked like true violet? And it was really thick, tasted gross by the look on his face. The other one in the drawer had white foam on top, I think."

"Smoky as in…?"

"It looked like smoke in a bottle."

"That has to be Drowsiness Draught," Hermione butted in. "It would need to be inhaled to work."

"Right," Cleo corroborated. "And… thick and true violet? That sounds like Stomach-Calming Elixir. Did it have any flecks in it? Look a bit like curdled milk?"

"Yeah." He smiled slightly. "For a potion that's supposed to calm your stomach, it looks _horrid._ "

"The other one though," Cleo ventured with some curiosity. "Blue… with white foam. Are you one hundred percent sure?"

His expression was deeply not-sure. "Yes…?"

"Light blue?" she checked. "With white foam? Not any other color?"

"I couldn't really see the color that well," he admitted. "But it was in a… er, thin… tube? Not like a regular potion vial, it was longer."

"That's…" Cleo stared at him, dumbfounded. "That's hospital-grade Relaxing Solution. It's literally the stuff Healers use to treat Cruciatus-induced tremors."

Weasley raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"I gave that to Violet every day for a week," she told him before clarifying, "Did it look clear? Like you could see through it? No cloudiness?"

"Kind of watery, yeah," Harry mentioned. "But I mean, what does he even need all that for? Just seems like normal stuff otherwise, but that last one doesn't seem like something Pomfrey would have on hand. Nobody's enduring Cruciatus while they're at school."

"Not anymore, anyway," Weasley muttered.

"I don't really know how or why Malfoy got a hold of it," Cleo admitted. "But I mean… the kid's already reckless. Some of these potions are addictive. I know Relaxing Solution has some… pleasant effects. Maybe he's, I don't know… abusing them?"

Hermione hummed, considering. "It seems odd that Madam Pomfrey would keep giving them to him, in that case."

"Who says she is?" Weasley commented. "Harry says there's a whole stash in his room. He probably stole them."

"Then why use the watch?" Harry questioned, standing up to meander around their perimeter. "If he's just being a reckless teenager, why even bother with the watch at all? He could just get into fights the normal way."

"Could be as you said," Hermione remarked. "He doesn't want to get in trouble."

Ron shook his head. "Doesn't want to get in trouble, but steals loads of medicine under Pomfrey's nose? Then leaves them lying about to get discovered? No way."

"What if he needs the fights?" Cleo blurted.

The three of them paused at her words, each of them sharing a look in turn before facing Cleo again.

"Needs them how?" Harry asked, tentative.

If she were being honest, she hadn't thought the idea all the way through. But it seemed like a good position for possible new ideas; they'd be going in circles if they remained deconstructing their previous, rigid premise. "Why would a person get into fights they know they're going to lose?" she tried. "It's only ever him that ends up in the Hospital Wing, right? Why is that?"

"Because he's a terrible duelist?" Weasley blithely suggested.

"He didn't used to be," Harry observed.

Hermione seemed to be on to something. "He doesn't-" She stopped before she got up and grasped Harry by the wrist. "Harry, when the two of you fought… he had loads of opportunities to get to you before you started bombarding him. And I mean, people usually fight back when they're being attacked like that, right? But he just lied there and took it. He's _never_ been like that with you before."

He looked between her and Cleo with confusion. "Yeah, but why? Why would he lose on purpose?"

Cleo shrugged, volleying another question. "What if he's trying to get hurt?"

There was quiet among the Gryffindors for a moment, all of them stewing this over in their minds. In particular, the question didn't seem to sit well with Harry, who sank back down into his seat as if his body was too heavy to carry.

Weasley was the one to speak first. "Up 'til now, Malfoy's only ever done what he can to live as easy a life as possible. Don't see why he'd stop now, no matter if dear old Dad is locked away or not. Whatever he's doing, I reckon he's on You-Know-Who's orders."

" _They have him…_ " Cleo repeated softly, absently.

She heard Hermione just off to her right. "What?"

"It's something Violet said to me," she explained. "It didn't make sense at the time. One of the reasons Narcissa didn't want Violet to tell anyone that she'd been involved in her escape was because 'they' had her son." She looked up at them. "Would any of you describe Voldemort as… I don't know, vengeful?"

Ron scoffed at her. "You joking?"

"I mean beyond the whole 'I'm going to take back the world from Muggle filth,' ethnic cleansing thing," Cleo dismissed. "Do you think he's _personally_ vengeful enough to bother taking time to punish the people who've failed him?"

"Yes," all three of them chimed at once.

Harry was the one who elaborated, "He was pretty hung up on betrayals when… when he first came back. Didn't take kindly to followers who had given up the cause in his absence."

"Then it makes sense, doesn't it?" she sought for confirmation. "Lucius completely dropped the ball by being found out and sent to prison; now Narcissa is in captivity, and she's apparently helped Violet escape… Even if that last bit is still somehow a secret, it seems really likely that Malfoy himself is just paying the blood price for his parents' stupidity."

Hermione frowned, looking her way. "If he just wanted Malfoy to suffer, why send him to school instead of keeping him locked up too?"

"For most people, school _is_ a punishment," Weasley pointed out, quirking an eyebrow at her.

"It's also publicly humiliating," Cleo mentioned. "There's no way Voldemort isn't aware of how important reputation is to the Malfoys. Forcing Draco to debase and ostracize himself would be the worst sort of torment for someone like him."

"That's…" Harry looked troubled, his brows drawn low over his eyes. "Is that… really all it is?" His gaze was drawn to the pocket watch, still held carefully in Weasley's hands. "Voldemort's just… torturing him for fun? He's really not up to anything at all?"

"He's still attacking students," Hermoine said. "I wouldn't call that nothing."

"Could also be that this is what's keeping his mother alive," Cleo added. "Could be a million different things."

"There's really no way to know. Not without more information, anyway."

"You know," Weasley remarked, a malicious sort of glee overtaking his expression. "It's bloody unreal that You-Know-Who's been wasting so much time lately. Most of his supporters were rounded up for Azkaban, but here he is, mucking about with Malfoy and not much else… It's honestly _embarrassing._ Off his game after that crushing defeat, I'd say."

"Defeat?" Cleo inquired.

Harry rejoined the conversation, though he looked uneasy. "At the Ministry, when we made him reveal himself. Everyone spent all year saying he couldn't possibly return, calling me a _liar-_ " At that, his gaze darted down to the back of his hand briefly before he fixed it on some faraway section of the wall.

Weasley clapped him on the shoulder. "Joke's on them, mate." Harry's answering smile was feeble.

That idea was odd, though. Cleo sat back on the table as she wondered, "Why did he reveal himself at all?"

"Forced his hand," Weasley replied. "The, uh… well." There seemed to be something he didn't want to say; he looked to his friends for confirmation before continuing: "Some _reinforcements_ came to rescue us, and then Dumbledore showed up. Guess You-Know-Who saw an opportunity to get rid of an old enemy."

That tracked with everything Harry had said before, but the added context didn't make the picture any clearer. In fact, the only bit of information missing was something Harry had mentioned very casually in their last meeting.

"… What's the Department of Mysteries?"

Harry blinked. "Er… Why do you ask?"

"Because when you and I were talking the other day, you said Voldemort had tried to use you to get information out of there."

He still looked puzzled, but explained, "It's just a secret bit of the Ministry. High security, normally, but we got in because Death Eaters came before us. Lots of… erm…"

"Experiments, mostly," Hermione filled in for him. "Looks like a research center. All sorts of strange artefacts and magical concepts that are unheard of in the outside world. Only Unspeakables are allowed in and out."

"And he wanted you there," Cleo repeated, deliberate. "For what?"

"A prophecy," Harry replied. "Since it was about me and Voldemort, only we would be able to pick it up."

What…? "Wait, prophe-" She stopped herself; it wasn't worth it to derail the conversation, impossible and ridiculous as the idea of _prophecies_ were. Shaking her head, she continued with an underlined, "Nevermind- if _that's_ the case, then why didn't he take it himself?"

"What d'you mean?" Weasley questioned. "Of course he couldn't take it. He'd expose himself to the Wizarding World."

"As you said, his Death Eaters were able to handle the security at the Department of Mysteries," Cleo pointed out. "He could have walked out with this… _prophecy_ himself; the risk of exposure only came in once he invited you to come stop him."

"Well," Harry muttered, uncomfortable. "They probably wanted to get at _me,_ too."

Cleo braced her neck with her hands as she leaned forward, pensive. "I mean, what was this prophecy about?" Her gaze darted up to him. "How important was it?"

Neither of his friends seemed to know this either, their gazes just as curious as hers as they looked his way, but Harry only stared at the ground with a grim expression. "It was about… Voldemort's rise to power," he divulged. "It's the reason he targeted me as a baby, the reason he killed my parents."

Hermione's eyes widened. "You never told us that!"

"Sorry, erm…" He winced. "I just didn't… really think to talk about it. Not after-" Harry stopped talking abruptly.

"Yeah, we get it, mate," Weasley sighed. "But- we're talking now, aren't we?"

"Yes, but-" Hermione faltered a moment before she pressed on with a more forceful, "Harry, how do you know it's the reason Voldemort killed your parents?"

Harry folded his arms, his foot bouncing in a nervous tap against the floor. "Dumbledore told me. Said that after Voldemort learned about it from one of his spies, he… came after us."

There was a strange disconnect between Cleo's mind and body as it attempted to process this information: Her body tightened up in rejection of the very idea while her mind readily accepted that, yes, _of course,_ the most powerful person in the Wizarding World was at the front of this. It was easier to envision than it had been with Snape. Even still, she couldn't tell which part of her was in control when she inquired, " _Dumbledore's_ involved, too?"

Harry nodded while Weasley uttered a droll, "Yup."

So this idiocy wasn't on the head of one man, but _two_ \- and God only knew how many others - for purposes she couldn't really fathom, outside of what vague assumptions she could cobble together.

But that didn't matter right now. She could talk to Harry about it later, when this was over and things had quieted down.

"So, this prophecy was important enough to go to all that effort, then," she pressed on.

Weasley crossed his arms. "You pinning down something specific, or…?"

Before she could reply, Hermione was already speaking. "Wait- Harry, what _exactly_ did the prophecy say?"

His discomfort was plain. "Er… basically that I'm the only person who can kill Voldemort."

"We don't need _basically,_ we need _exactly-_ "

"I don't know?" He was starting to sound a little defensive. "It said the person who could defeat him would be born at the end of July to parents who defied him three times- and that's me. He killed my family and then failed when he got to me, and that's… really it."

Hermione looked a little abashed to witness his grim countenance, but the moment did not deter her focus. "Harry, if… if all that is really true, then- Voldemort must already know what it says, in full or in part," she murmured, tapping her lips with steepled fingers. "And if he just wanted to keep the information from his enemies, he could have smashed the record of the prophecy himself too. Arguably, the prophecy itself… didn't matter to him, and the _only_ reason to invite you was to capture or kill you."

At that, she cast another worried glance at Harry. His gaze was trained on his hands, clasped together and fidgeting. "I guess so."

"I mean at that juncture, why do it so publicly?" Cleo argued. "If exposure was a risk, then why allow you to have reinforcements at all? Why go about inviting you in such a way where he had little to gain and so much more to lose?"

"Well, we wouldn't have had _any_ reinforcements," Hermione averred, "if Harry hadn't told Professor Snape."

Cleo suppressed a scowl and forced herself not to interrupt; the blows would keep coming, she knew, and this would just be another thing to discuss later.

"Yeah but, You-Know-Who couldn't have known that," Weasley pointed out, his gaze meeting Cleo's. "It would've been a complete toss-up, whether Harry would come alone or bring help. The Death Eaters didn't know the rest of us would be there, but… that didn't really bother them either."

"We were just a bunch of children," Harry said, his voice quiet. "Of course they weren't bothered."

"Yes, but Ron is right," Hermione agreed, energy heightening as she fidgeted. "There was no way for Voldemort to anticipate that. I mean, he never stipulated in your vision that you had to come alone, right?"

"I mean- it was just a vision," Harry admitted, solemn. "It's not like he talked to me or anything."

"Oh yes, of course! Because they were supposed to seem like normal dreams, right? So he had to know that in order for you to take the bait, your vision had to seem like an accident," she reasoned. Then, she blanched. "That… by default, he _couldn't_ set rules. That he _couldn't_ control the outcome." Her voice had slowed to an uncertain, hushed crawl. "That… that you coming with help he couldn't easily thwart was… a substantial risk."

The trio of Gryffindors fell silent, then. Each of them was locked in thought, their eyes looking far away from the room they were sitting in, minds going where Cleo couldn't follow. They paled, terrified. Daunted.

The air in the room chilled under the weight of their collective silence. For the first time, Cleo felt uncomfortable enough to search for confirmation, "Would he really take that big of a risk?"

Weasley swiped a hand across his mouth, expelling a breath through his fingers. "Dunno."

"If…" Hermione cleared her throat, visibly disturbed. "If Voldemort didn't care what would happen… then why did he come?"

"To get at Harry, like you said?" Weasley suggested, uneasy. "Maybe he thought he could beat Dumbledore."

"Yes, but then why the fuss about the prophecy?" she countered. "The second Harry picked it up, Death Eaters _surrounded_ us-" She paused as she grasped her own hand; her throat tensed against an anxious swallow. "If the prophecy never mattered, then why was Harry able to bargain with it? Why didn't they just… kill us all where we stood?" Hermione struggled to take a breath. "How- _why_ did we survive?"

Harry's voice was feeble. "We survived because they knew they could use my friends to… _force_ me to give them the prophecy."

Her tone ventured toward pitying. "They didn't need to- the Killing Curse is _unblockable,_ Harry. There were six of us and… and _twelve_ of them. And yet, they went on for so long just talking to you-"

She cut herself off, gaze plummeting to the ground. When she didn't look poised to continue, Weasley observed in a low, disquieted tone, "Like they were killing time."

Cleo had been allowing the three of them to speak amongst each other, but something about what Weasley said…

"Are you sure," the question ambled out, weighty and circumspect, "that the prophecy was the _only_ reason you were sent there?"

Harry grew agitated then, his answer coming out more forcefully than the situation called for, "No. _No,_ there's- there's _nothing_ else. What other reasons could he possibly-? "

"Harry, they broke in ahead of us," Hermione explained, concern coloring her voice. "They were sitting in a high-security vault of forbidden knowledge for _hours_ before we got there-"

His unrest had evidently reached a breaking point. "Dumbledore _said_ he wanted the prophecy!"

"As you've mentioned before, Dumbledore isn't all-knowing," she returned, patient. "The Death Eaters could have had any number of additional reasons for being there that night."

"Why would Voldemort show up _himself_ unless we'd backed him into a corner-!"

"Well that's the question, isn't it?" Hermione acknowledged. "Because it doesn't make sense. What did he _get_ out of appearing? It only made a horrible situation even worse."

"Unless that was the plan from the start," Weasley murmured, the frenetic bounce of his legs thumping against the bottom of his seat. "Maybe he _wanted_ to reveal himself."

Cleo's gaze swept from Weasley to Hermione, the former staring upward at the vaulted ceiling and the latter staring at her own hands in thought. It was a heavy implication. And although it didn't have the same personal meaning to Cleo, the sentiment sat dense between the four of them. So much so that it wasn't at all surprising when Harry had a different interpretation of the matter entirely.

"Don't be stupid, Ron," he snapped. "He wouldn't spend all year in my head, trying to get at Dumbledore through me, if he planned to just announce himself anyway! He lost the advantage of surprise the _second_ he appeared publicly-"

"Sure, he lost an advantage," Weasley countered. "But who's to say he didn't gain one as well?"

"Like _what?_ "

Hermione fielded this with a grave, "We don't know, Harry." Her shoulders slumped. "Since we don't have all the facts, it's impossible to know. But whatever it is… clearly, Voldemort would have to believe it was worth the cost to get it."

"What's worth losing the freedom of secrecy and every last one of your supporters?" he argued.

"Whatever nets you the ability to raise the dead and control people, maybe?" Cleo suggested, a little too flippant for her own liking.

"You mean like- what, _Necromancy?_ " Weasley shuddered, horrified.

Hermione twisted her hands together in her lap. "As far as forbidden magic goes, it seems likely that would be near the top of the list."

Harry frowned, his tone still doubtful. "I don't know. Maybe."

"You said it was a research center," Cleo pointed out. "It seems the most reasonable to place."

"Something tells me he probably already knew a lot about it before he ever attacked the Ministry," was Harry's subdued response, his frown cutting across his face like a wound.

Weasley sighed, his tapping foot starting up again. "I mean, it would explain Crouch Jr., wouldn't it? Maybe Malfoy's mum, too."

Cleo's countenance softened as she stared knowingly at Harry. "She's her, but not her."

He met her gaze for a moment before his eyes drifted off to the side. "I don't know. Doesn't quite… _feel_ right, but- I guess that could be it."

"It's something to look into, at least," Hermione conceded before shifting in her seat. "But maybe we should get to the matter at hand. Whatever Voldemort's plans are, it's imperative we make sure Violet isn't returned to him."

"Right," Cleo sighed. "Okay. Yeah."

Harry much more readily latched onto that topic. "Saturday's the deadline, so we only really have less than two days to get her out of St. Mungo's."

Weasley's eyes were trained on the ward sitting on the floor between them as he mumbled, "Can't check her out normally because she's under investigation, can't Apparate in the hospital, can't Floo anywhere outside their network without a Mediwizard license- and she can't walk very far or be directly spelled." His summary left him looking a little bleak. "Not a lot of options, there."

Cleo blinked before she turned her stare toward Harry. "Did you not tell them about the portkey?"

"I told them it could be traced back to you," he said. "So, we'd need to find another way."

" _Harry-_ "

"The only other options would be portkey, broom, or vehicle," Hermione listed. "I would hazard a guess that Violet would not be particularly safe on a broom, much less for a journey of that magnitude. And to travel by train or car would take far too long, not to mention the impossibility of not being caught on your way out. A portkey would be ideal, _if_ they weren't so heavily regulated."

There was a dread about Harry when he echoed, "Regulated?"

"They're limited use," Weasley cut in. "Dad deals with illegal portkeys all the time - it's considered misuse of artefacts if you make one yourself or tamper with a standard-issue. They're only good for a certain amount of trips usually, and you've got to go through the Ministry to get more."

"And they are thoroughly registered with three points of contact," Hermione tacked on. "The starting location, the destination, and who is authorized to use it."

"I mean, maybe if one of us used it instead of Cleo…?" Harry tried.

Weasley scratched the side of his face. "I mean, it probably wouldn't work for us without Croft. Portkeys are tied to specific people, places, and times."

"So, that plan's out, then," Harry sighed.

"No, it's not," was Cleo's immediate, dubious rejoinder.

"Like I said, there's not a lot of options, Harry," Weasley reiterated. "Even if we went in impersonating Aurors or something, there's really no other way that would guarantee us getting her out in time."

"Not to mention… it's the _safest_ way," Hermione concurred.

"But- what about Snape?" Harry pointed out. "It's in his office, isn't it? What if he's there at the time?"

"It honestly depends," Cleo prefaced. "Sometimes he's there, sometimes he isn't. His schedule is next to impossible for me to predict, which is why he gave me a key to his office. So sometimes I'll come back to an empty office and have to make sure to lock up for the evening; other times he's there and wants to chat about how work went." Her lips pursed. "So it's an obstacle. Definitely something we should consider."

"Diversion, maybe?" Weasley submitted. "I've got a few dungbombs that might keep him occupied."

Hermione shot him a look. "He'll just call Filch, and we'll have one more person to deal with. And besides, you shouldn't even have those."

"What're you going to do, _Prefect?_ " he teased, rolling his eyes. "Confiscate them?"

Harry, who had been looking especially dire, relaxed minutely to comment, "She might, Ron."

"They're for a good cause!"

Cleo felt sort of bad for having to corral the topic back. "Snape doesn't often deal with disciplinary issues like he used to, not even in his own House. So I doubt a diversion of that kind would get him away."

Hermione piped up, "Maybe it would be best to go when he has a class?"

"Like Weasley said, it's set to activate during my work hours," Cleo explained. "My supervisor sets the charges for my schedule, week by week. So I can't get to hospital unless I'm on shift."

"So you can only come back at the end of your work day, too," she surmised, pressing her lips together in thought. "When are you next scheduled?"

"Eight in the morning until five on Saturday."

"Do you know when Narcissa will be there?" Harry asked.

"She's being given an evening tour," Cleo informed them. "Interdepartmental memo. I figure they think there will be less exposure to a majority of visitors who would openly disapprove of a Death Eater's wife being associated with the hospital."

Weasley snorted. "Fancy that."

"So, five o'clock is a good time to get her out, then," Hermione concluded. "But that still doesn't solve the issue with Snape, especially since- Well. Now I think of it, he won't have any classes to distract him."

"I mean, as long as he doesn't see Violet, you'd just be coming back from work like normal, right?" Harry perked up.

"Right…?"

"My invisibility cloak!" he exclaimed. "If you bring her here with it on, you can keep her hidden in the castle, and the next time you go to work, you can just bring her back- nobody will know you were involved at all!"

It wasn't the worst idea, but it was marred by a detail that the boy was staunchly refusing to acknowledge. "Harry…"

The attention he directed at her was intent, eager, but Weasley's words intersected it. "You can use my ward so he won't be able to hear her walking around."

There was a distinct aura to this pronouncement that implied that he understood what she hadn't said. Hermione, too, was gazing between them with some concern when she questioned, "Ron, I thought your ward was…?"

"Destroyed?" he finished for her, shrugging. "Yeah… I remade it last night. And this one on the floor, too. Turns out when you study and practice a thing, you get better at it. Can you imagine?"

Her smile was small. "I can."

"Anyway, so long as she holds onto it and doesn't smash it up, it'll work. Snape won't know she's there in the room with him at all unless she knocks something over."

"That works." Cleo was addressing the room, but she was watching Harry.

The boy himself was oblivious. "Brilliant! So should we meet at half seven on Saturday, then, to give you everything you need?"

What she should've done was confront him. What she should've told him was the truth.

Instead, she forced herself to smile. "Yeah, Harry. Sounds good."

••••••••••

"Wolfsbane," Cleo announced.

Snape met her with a raised eyebrow. It was the first word she'd spoken in the hour they'd been together.

"I've been thinking about it, is all."

Standing, the professor brushed the dirt from his gloves, his newly planted Belladonna swaying gently in the winter wind. There were sparse patches of snow still lying about, but Snape's garden was thriving under the heat of the Fireseed bush he'd placed on the outskirts of his plot, near the stream. By comparison, her aconite bushes were beginning to look a little sad and wilty, despite her having staked them the previous week.

"I presume you mean the potion, not the plant," Snape remarked, blithe.

She couldn't match his tone. "Yes."

"And?"

"It's a good map for a first prototype."

He seemed to consider this momentarily. "Functionally, Wolfsbane is very different from your end goal."

"Yes, but the fundamental effects of Wolfsbane have physiological outcomes that would be beneficial to my goals." She didn't look at him. "Like I said, it's a map for a first prototype."

"To manage pain and induce a stasis, perhaps, but… Wolfsbane is a complicated brew," he observed, his boots crunching in snow behind her. "Difficult to understand, even to a Master such as myself."

Her hands gripped her wand tightly as she inspected a yellowed leaf. "Okay."

His footfalls stopped. "Nothing more to say about that, Miss Croft?" Snape questioned, mildly amused.

"Just that if you think it's not an avenue worth exploring, then I won't."

He paused. "I did not say it was fruitless."

"Then what should I do?"

"Considering all that thinking you've supposedly been doing," he remarked, his voice pointed away from her, "I assumed you had concocted a plan of your own."

Maybe. Except all those things felt nebulous now. Pointless. Impossible. Something she could almost feel herself resenting, the longer she mulled on it. And she didn't really want to.

"I guess."

There was quiet for the space of a minute. A blundering, unwieldy silence that was stifled when he passed by her, stepping into her field of vision. "If that is so," he began in an even tone, "then it is not very like you to keep quiet, Miss Croft."

To be addressed in such an overly familiar way by someone who was beginning to seem more and more like a stranger was… well. She hadn't quite managed to settle on an emotion she _should_ feel. Amongst the prevailing apprehension, dismay, impatience, and agitation which was swirling and churning and battling and weaving into some paralyzing amalgam, she was left with the knowledge that she _should_ feel angry. But the notion was difficult to grasp and even more impossible to hold on to.

"Sorry," she breathed, peeling her dragonskin gloves from her hands. She rubbed the back of her neck in some vain attempt to soothe her frayed nerves. "Just… been stressed ever since-" She pulled her palm over the side of her throat. "Work. And on top of-… y'know, been trying to figure out how to spellcraft and I'm awful at it and…"

"Wards require regular maintenance," he told her. "Especially weather charmed ones. Their weakening is not a reflection on the quality of your work."

He'd told her this before; he was repeating it for her benefit. She hated how nice that felt.

Cleo shifted, visibly uneasy. "I know. I just… more or less, I meant, uhm- I'd been trying my hand at actual spell creation and it hasn't exactly been going well-"

"What is it you are attempting to create?"

"Well, _trying_ for a diagnostic spell for preeclampsia," she disclosed, sighing loudly. "I've read up a lot on the theory behind spell creation and have discovered that I am completely out of my depth."

Snape crouched down beside the aconite bush, his robe spilling around him in dark folds. "A diagnostic spell, with all its information-gathering properties, is not an ideal choice for a beginner," he divulged. "It is better to start with spells which have more quantifiable outcomes." He tapped his wand to a sprig of fallen leaves, and as he drew the tip upward, a stream of liquid was extracted from the severed plant bits. Below, the leaves shriveled and browned. "It is easier to see your results with a simple cause and effect."

"Right," she blandly excused herself.

Snape shrugged, standing once more. "If you are lacking ideas, then you might simply re-invent a spell which already exists."

"How do you mean?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Spells are merely commands which you issue to the magic around you. It is common practice for spellsmiths to copy an existing spell using an entirely different combination of incantation, visualization, and wand movement… It is an exercise in honing your will against elemental magic as a whole."

That sounded like how she utilized magic already, but that was much less comforting than it should've been. "That… makes sense, I guess. Thank you."

She expected his usual dismissal, or perhaps no response at all, but was surprised when he replied, in the midst of walking away, with a short, "You are welcome."

His cordiality hit her strangely. Any other time, it might have felt encouraging. Pleasant, even. Now, though? She couldn't shake the thought that it was all… hollow.

Maybe she wasn't angry _at_ him, but rather that she couldn't talk _to_ him. Maybe she wanted to face him squarely to ask him what the fuck he was thinking. To demand to know why he'd treated Harry so badly. To ask how he managed to exist as two separate people at once and why that never seemed to bother him at all. To find out how much of him was concealed. To see if _anything_ she knew about him was actually real.

She wanted it to be real. For reasons beyond all comprehension, she wanted it to be real.

And it felt stupid, how much she desired to test the bounds. To devote herself to an exercise in desperately seeking something she wasn't sure was even there.

She very nearly touched her aconite bare-handed in her distraction and drew her fingers back against her chest. Her words came out before she'd even organized her thoughts.

"I wanted to ask you something, actually."

He did not look up, but his eyebrows raised in question.

"The Dreamless Sleep exam?" She shifted so she was facing him. "I wanted to ask how Harry did?"

"Passably," was Snape's clipped response as he glanced at her sidelong.

She blinked, feeling a pressure in her chest. "That's all?"

There was something distinctly snappish in the way he plucked one of the large pink flowers from its stem before shoving it into a glass bottle. "You were expecting more?"

To be honest, she wasn't quite sure what she'd been expecting. "I was sort of hoping you'd noticed how much better he's-"

"As laudable as your charitable efforts are," Snape interrupted, "I fear they are too little, too late. You should be focusing more on your own progress, Miss Croft."

"What are you talking about?" she asked through a nervous, uncertain laugh. "We're barely toward the end of first term. How could it possibly be too late for him?"

"It was too late the moment Potter entered my classroom on false pretenses," he explained with an edge of malice. "He did not meet the prerequisites to begin my N.E.W.T. class, and has since been riding on _your_ coattails to survive the curriculum, and to make up for his various absences and utter refusal to complete assignments."

"Is that what we're calling tutoring now?" she balked. "He worked hard. He earned that passing grade."

His scoff was loud enough to traverse the length of the garden plot. "He only barely managed not to ruin his entire brew at the half hour mark, and turned in a _partial_ vial by the end."

"Are you actually keeping track of mistakes he could have made, but didn't?"

Snape leveled her a baleful glare, but said nothing as he continued bottling petals.

A despairing breath preceded her next question. "Why do you do that?"

He was silent for a full minute before turning her way. "I assume you are waiting for me to ask what you mean?"

Cleo's expression soured. Her words were more of a plea than a demand. " _Stop it._ "

"You are not particularly suited to giving orders, Miss Croft," he warned.

"Why does this topic make you so angry?" she pressed. "Not two minutes ago you were actually _genial_ and now you're just-"

"I have never boasted a pleasant personality."

"That's not even remotely what I'm talking about."

Snape stoppered a vial, uncaring. "Then perhaps you should make yourself clear."

She scooted closer to him. "I know you're not a bad person."

He scowled. "But?"

"There's no but."

"Is that so."

"I just don't understand why he sets you off like this?"

Snape turned his back to her, attending to another section of the garden. "And _I_ fail to see why you find him so worthy of merit."

She very suddenly chucked her gloves at him, glaring as they bounced off his shoulder with an unspectacular _slap._ "He's a _kid,_ Snape."

His eyes directed themselves to the offending garment, sitting abandoned beside his boots. "Evidently, so are you."

"Can you even tell me _one_ thing he's actually done to deserve the amount of… unmitigated hatred you have for him?" she heatedly challenged.

"It is simply fascinating that you believe you know all there is to know about Harry Potter in mere months, where I have had to suffer his presence for years," Snape told her, clearly annoyed. "He has always been a spoiled, arrogant, and reckless boy, and I have only ever attempted to disabuse him of his delusions of grandeur."

"Delusions of grandeur?" she jeered. "Are you _kidding_ me? Tell me one thing he's ever bragged about!"

"You need only look to his conduct, Miss Croft," he dismissed. "I daresay he feels at liberty to do whatever he likes."

"That's not an answer."

"Astute observation."

"I _told_ you to give me an example."

"And I told _you_ I'm not in the habit of taking orders from students."

"You can't do it," she accused. "You literally can't because you _know_ there is absolutely no reason for you to act like this."

"Ah yes, because your assessments are so vastly superior," Snape intoned, vials clinking as he placed them in the crate. "Tell me, has he never mentioned his childish feats of heroism to you? Never spoken of his blatant disregard for any and all rules and regulations in this school? Or, perhaps, did he tell all, and convince you there was no harm in it?"

"He's a _kid!_ " The pitch of her shout clamored along the treeline; rustling leaves, disturbing birds. "How is that so impossible for you to wrap your head around?!"

"Children should still be held accountable for their actions."

"Not to the point where they're not allowed the room for _growth!_ "

"That boy has been allowed all the room in the world," he sneered. "His caretakers do everything in their power to enable him. Including _you,_ Miss Croft."

"Caring about him is enabling him?"

"Potter has performed many daring feats, year after year, which should have been grounds for expulsion," he flatly told her. "Were you in his place, the same concessions would not have been made."

"That's not his _choice!_ " she argued, breathless. "That's people, _outside of him,_ making those exceptions! Were it up to him-"

"Were it up to _him,_ his demands would grow further egregious! In truth, they already have!" Snape practically snarled at her. "Even now, he defies order and reason to serve his own selfish purposes; the allowances made for him by his devotees are by virtue of his _celebrity_ alone - without it, there is _nothing_ of value in his conduct to recommend him!"

"You're just conflating the behavior of other people with his _again!_ " she accused, fists clenching. "This is about the class, right? Tell me, did Harry Potter _himself_ barge into your office, demanding that he be put in your N.E.W.T. class, or did _someone else_ make that decision for him?!"

"You are a fool if you think allowing someone else to solve his problems for him means that he bears no responsibility," he retorted. "Not once has he spoken to me about it. Not _once_ has he shown that he disagrees with the Headmaster's direct order that the boy _must_ attend my class. Not once has defiant, contemptuous, rule-breaking Harry Potter ever thought to go against this mandate. And why is that? Because it _benefits_ him, and nothing more!"

Her own reaction surprised her more than anything else: Her anger immediately dissipated into disbelief as she laughed, actually _laughed,_ before roughly snagging her gloves from beside him and sloppily pulling them on. Even more surprising were the tears, warm and unwelcome, caressing the length of her jaw as she turned back to adjust a crooked stake.

A few more tears slipped between her gritted teeth before she uttered, "You are _unbelievable._ "

She couldn't see his expression but, considering his previous anger, he stayed quiet for an uncomfortably long time. "I could say the same of you," he murmured, a wary lilt to his tone.

A quiet scoff burst from her nostrils, curtailed by a sharp laugh, as she looked at him. "Do you even hear yourself?"

His eyes narrowed, displeasure plain, as Cleo looked skyward, yet more tears sliding down the length of her nose. "You're angry because Harry Potter - the vaunted _Boy Who Lived,_ the kid who is fated to solve all the problems in the Wizarding World, the _little boy_ who will save us and eliminate all evil and suffering apparently - _won't do the right thing._ You're angry that Harry Potter, a boy who is _cognizant of all of this,_ won't give up on the very advantage that will help him accomplish what these people expect of him out of integrity and principle - because he didn't _earn_ it." Her face snapped toward him. "You're angry because he's acting a little too _Slytherin_ for your liking."

The professor kept himself very still, not outwardly reacting to what she'd said, but she could see her words roiling behind his eyes, his glare made fiercer because of it. " _Ridiculous,_ " he dismissed, gaze breaking away from hers.

"Then look me in the eye and tell me that if it were _me_ in his position, you'd be just as furious."

There was a cynical slant to his mouth, but nevertheless it stayed resolutely closed. With a disdainful sniff, Snape turned away to walk further down the row of aconite, heading toward the middle of her plot.

She pelted her words at his back. "Anyone who spends five minutes around that boy knows he practically wears his heart on his sleeves. He is one of the most self-sacrificing people I've ever met. The only way you wouldn't notice is if you were too stupid to see it, or were outright _refusing_ to." Her fingers dug deep into the soil as she clenched them into fists. "And I _know_ you aren't stupid."

He ignored that entirely, saying, "Show me your ward foundation."

She trained an incredulous squint on him. " _Snape-_ "

"Last I checked, I am still your advisor," he replied in a voice soaked through with sarcasm. "Or have you forgotten?"

She leaned toward one of the stakes with contempt, unraveling a tattered looking old piece of cloth that had been tied to it. Seconds later, it was launched through the air, where the professor caught it hastily against his torso.

"I am beginning to dislike your habit of throwing objects at random, Miss Croft."

"Will you stop trying to deflect?"

His tone flattened. "I fail to see what more you could have to say."

"I'm trying to talk to you!" she bleated, the sound so dire that it frightened her. " _Actually_ talk - not share banal, pointless pleasantries! Communicate! _Connect!_ "

"You have made your point already," he said through gritted teeth. "How do you expect me to respond? Are you waiting for an admission that I invariably treat _you_ better than Harry Potter? I could have told you that much from the start."

Her tears resurfaced but for a different reason, that time. "Do you get why I told you about what happened during my pregnancy?"

He looked as if he felt his answer cumbersome, but was humoring her anyway. "Presumably to convince me to advise you."

"Because I _look up to you,_ " was her vehement correction. "Which, apparently, is something you can't comprehend."

This admission only seemed to perturb him further. He said nothing.

"That's… _it,_ " she confessed, the words stumbling out, choked up on her breath. "No monologue. No grand proclamation. I look up to you. I don't know why that doesn't register or- or even _matter_ to you. But all I'm saying is that I admire you and that I am desperately searching for reasons to keep doing that."

"If the task is so very onerous for you to complete, then you are free to despise me at your leisure." This was spoken with such a lack of ire that it verged on self pity.

" _God_ you sound like my mother," she vented into her palms as they made a frustrated swipe across her face. "Look, I can't make you talk to me. But I'll have you know it sucks. It _really_ sucks. Because I thought-"

It felt idiotic to say, now that it came down to it. Her humiliation forced her into silence.

Unfortunately, Snape wasn't particularly disposed to patience. " _What?_ "

"I _thought_ that this was… a relationship, I guess," she revealed after a moment of embarrassed waffling. "Maybe friendship is a stupid way to put it but, I don't know? You're my mentor and… I thought we enjoyed being around each other? Have a rapport? That you're someone I could talk to, be real and honest with. That we could actually have an adult conversation regarding conflicts like this- Like how I know what you're capable of as a person, and how much it terrifies me when you choose… _not_ to be that."

His posture was thoroughly drawn up, voice austere. "And what is it you contend I'm capable of, 'as a person'?"

" _Kindness,_ " she stressed, her expression strained against her tears. "Civility. Joviality. Empathy. _Compassion._ "

He hardly reacted except to say, "How very optimistic of you."

"Yeah, I know, how _stupid_ of me," she spat, sniffing as she wiped her cheeks against her sleeve. "How could I think the person who was understanding of me at the worst point of my life, who went out of his way to set up everything I needed for my academic future, who went beyond the pale for me in my time of need was anything other than a cold, unfeeling _monster,_ right?"

He stared at her, eyes shadowed by the low overhang of the trees. Then, in a careful tone, he said, "You hardly know me, Miss Croft."

 _That_ was what terrified her, in truth.

"Maybe I don't," she conceded, sitting back against the grass, legs curled beneath her. "But, is that what you want? For me to think that what you are is essentially unreasonable? A person who could bully children? Traumatize them? Beat the enthusiasm out of them?"

A silence formed between them for a time, during which he never broke from her gaze. There was a stillness to the glade around them, as if even the forest was awaiting an answer. But Snape, for the first time, started to look antsy, his fingers twitching against the old cloth in his hands as if he wanted to wring it. Then, just as she thought he might actually reply, the breath drained from him in a sigh from his nose, and he turned away from her to fiddle with the ward.

Cleo hadn't set a password on it; after a moment, a brief _Ostendo_ lit up the garden with two glowing white cords.

She didn't look at hers, but she felt the slight thrum of energy up against her wrist. "That's the only possible conclusion I can come to. And there's only so much I can excuse before I really _do_ become an enabler."

Wordlessly, he extended the scroll to inspect her weather charms. However, the small frown which formed on his face indicated he was still listening.

"I mean, it's not just Harry, is it?" she uttered into the dense quiet. "Like how many times can I say 'that's just Snape' before it becomes a tacit endorsement of how you treat people? Like Thea?" Cleo's head shot up, peering at him in earnest. "She was so terrified of you that she had to stop coming to classes. She camped out in the Forbidden Forest just to avoid the _possibility_ of running into you in the dorms."

The movement of his wand arm hitched midair, the lapse brief but noticeable against his otherwise controlled demeanor. Still, he did not reply, resuming his inspection unhindered.

"Doesn't that bother you?" she probed, emphatic. "Hearing that you, a grown man, were so scary to this eleven-year-old that she was willing to risk her safety and expulsion just so she didn't have to be in contact with you?"

This elicited even less of a reaction; he hardly moved at all.

" _Say something!_ " she demanded, despondent. "She's one of your Slytherins, for God's sake-!"

"And I have _treated_ her like one!" he suddenly snarled, the full force of his glare descending on her once more. "She has received the same consideration that _you_ have-!"

"She doesn't need _consideration!_ She needs to feel _safe!_ "

Snape's fingers clenched the ward in his hands as his voice grew exponentially darker. "I have _never_ threatened her."

"No," Cleo agreed, low and raspy. "Just treated her in a manner that's tantamount to emotional abuse."

There was a deathly silence between them. She'd seen him be horribly angry before, was perhaps even hoping for it, if only to prove that he cared about what she was saying at all, but, unexpectedly, Snape's face disfigured before her eyes into some expression wholly unfamiliar. For an instant, he looked well and truly ruinous, like he might just tear her ward to pieces. Then, in the next moment, his expression had gone blank, the furor she'd witnessed deadening entirely before he unlatched his grip on the cloth in his hands. Turning away, he retreated to the farthest edge of the garden, returning to his previous occupation as if nothing had been said.

The very sight of it stoked a panic inside her she couldn't contain. " _Don't!_ "

Nothing; he continued on his intended trajectory around the plot.

"Don't just-" The fight in her voice petered out into a dejected, forlorn whine. "Don't lock me out. _Please._ "

The glance he tossed her way was utterly impassive. "For once, Miss Croft," Snape said, toneless, "Permit me to perform my actual job."

"That's _exactly_ what I want!" she lamented. "I want you to do your job. I am _begging_ you to do your job!"

His gaze caught on her again and held fast, a dubious squint narrowing his eyes.

"They _need_ you," she emphasized, the glowing cord in her chest following her upward as she sat straighter. "Every single child in that castle depends on you. You aren't just some incidental figure in their lives - you're their bloody teacher. You're one of the adults they're placing their trust in - to mentor them, to guide them, to _protect_ them. _Everything_ you say and do makes an impact."

"I am well _aware-_ "

"It shouldn't be me, Snape!" she interjected. "I shouldn't be the one to properly teach Harry fundamental principles of potion theory! I shouldn't be the one to inform him that there are actual _workrooms_ he can practice in! I shouldn't be the one giving him tips to improve his brewing strategy and memorization! It shouldn't be me catching him up on everything he _should_ have known from day one! That isn't _my_ job!"

Snape's glare was baleful. "If Potter lacks discipline, that is not my problem."

"He doesn't!" she bellowed, a derisive laugh caught up in the coattails of her breath. "He categorically _doesn't!_ Because if he _did,_ everything I've done wouldn't have worked! He wouldn't be improving at all, but he _is!_ But for some unfathomable reason, you don't want that to be true! You're _desperate_ for it to not be true!" The weight of her words bent her forward, emptying her indignation into the space between them. "The problem isn't that he lacks the willingness or the ability to learn, but the fact you've _never_ wanted him to succeed and have spent every waking moment trying to alienate him from trying!"

"Are you quite finished, Miss Croft?" he snapped at her.

She wasn't. Not even close. And she struggled to her feet, the glowing cord seeming to tangle in her skirt as she rose from the grass. "He was a _child._ And it's- it's so weird thinking about how I'd hear the newest way you'd tormented eleven-year-old Harry Potter just… casually bandied about the common room. Like it was funny. Like it was _normal._ But how is your treatment of him even remotely normal? What could this little boy possibly have done before you'd even _met_ to make you hate him so much? To make you push him out of a learning environment he needed? To make you convince him that he was worthless? To make you-"

 _To make you take him to places children shouldn't go; to tell him that it was his fault a girl could be dead._

Her jaw trembled as she kept the phrase from spilling out. It rattled strongly against her teeth, _begging_ to be said. The pain of it burned hot against her eyes as new tears plummeted along the contours of her cheeks.

Snape didn't appear to have any answers for her. His stare was direct, piercing, but that was it. He uttered neither an explanation nor a refutation. In the end, all he did say was, "Your Aconites are wilting as we speak."

How could he even possibly be _thinking_ about a stupid-

She took a step toward him, a frustrated, despondent exhale huffing from her lungs before her body spun away from him. Her legs carried her in a harried, frenetic pace around the garden, hands held up against her face as if she were keeping it from falling completely apart. The air was interspersed with the sound of her crunching footsteps and her heated, weepy breaths as she tried to calm herself. But each step led her deeper in; all ire and disquiet, bedlam and resentment. She rounded on him with a half turn, the movement so violent she was afraid she'd actually _strike_ him.

"You know what's hilarious?" she asked him, her tone frothy with unvoiced sobs. "I actually _agree_ with you. I think the utter reverence everyone treats Harry with is _so_ unhealthy."

He sighed, pointedly turning his gaze toward the glowing scroll in his hands. "Hilarious," he echoed dully.

She very tightly grasped him by the crook of his elbow. " _Listen_ to me." Her breath tripped over itself. " _Please._ "

Predictably, he pulled out of her grasp. Despite this, though, he kept his glower fixed on her.

"All of it is so… _wrong,_ " she told him. "He shouldn't be eleven years old and plundering the castle; he shouldn't be twelve and delving into dangerous, monster-inhabited caverns. He shouldn't be fighting dragons at fourteen. He shouldn't be fifteen and thinking that if he fails to save even _one_ person, that he's culpable for every death that comes after. He shouldn't think that the entire fate of the world rests on his shoulders, especially when there are a lot of us who know that's not even true." Her tears felt cold against her chin as a nearby breeze fluttered against her face. "He should get to be a kid. He should have _one_ adult in his life that looks at him and thinks, 'what's best for _him?_ How can I be there and protect him from all this… _pressure_ that's slowly wearing him down until there's nothing left?'"

"You speak as if he is not running headlong into that danger you are so concerned about, all of his own volition," Snape countered.

"Do you seriously think that if he didn't have the entire Wizarding World in his ear with this Boy Who Lived nonsense, he would've made even _half_ the choices he's made?"

"No," he admitted, surprisingly. "But that is speculation without merit; the fact of the matter is that he _is_ the Boy Who Lived. Conjecture to the contrary does not address present circumstances, in which his behavior is increasingly audacious."

"You can't divorce his socialization from his behavior," she argued. "And you can't even hope to improve it unless you try to change that influence."

"It cannot be changed, Miss Croft," he stated at once. "And neither is anyone in a position to make the attempt."

When she looked down, the effervescent glow of the cord warmed and smoothed the roughened contours of her cheek. She could almost feel it inside her, weighty, _expectant._ She blinked and a few stray tears plunged into its luminous void. She could barely hear her own voice when she murmured, "I can. If there's no one else, there's me."

"I somehow doubt you will have sufficient resources to unravel the mythos of the Boy Who Lived between work, school, and caring for your child."

"If you think my time and energy would be focused so narrowly," she muttered, clear and determined, "then you don't know me at all."

At that, he scowled. "Your preoccupation with _mothering_ everyone around you does you a disservice, Miss Croft."

She lifted her head, strands of hair messily clinging to her damp cheeks. Her smile was bittersweet. "Maybe. But I can live with myself."

 _Can you say the same?_

She didn't say it, but they both somehow knew she had.

Snape's expression looked etched from stone. "I have neither the desire nor the patience to set myself up as Potter's caretaker when so many others clamor for the position."

Cleo turned herself back to the garden. "Okay."

She heard him snort. "But, clearly, you will hold it against me all the same."

"No, Snape," was her subdued reply. Her vision blurred as she forced herself to stare at a petal of Aconite, eaten halfway through. "I won't."

"What then was the purpose of this topic, Miss Croft?" he questioned her. "Did you mean to point out the flaws in my character and then carry on?"

"No."

Because after tonight, it would be over. No theatrical exit; no exhausting screaming match. Their arrangement would quietly, carefully, resolutely finish. A fitting end to a relationship that never should have existed.

"Then _what?_ "

The exhaustion was creeping up on her rather quickly. Cleo lowered herself to the ground once more, bowing her head into her arm to rub her eyes against her wrist. "I'm just tired of seeing people hurt on account of you."

She could feel the way he was poised to retort in the way he drew breath, but a moment later, the words dissipated, never finding voice. They lapsed into a dissonant quiet, the sounds of the forest clanging around them, strident and cacophonous.

The sun had just begun its work of brightening the sky, but only barely, the light feeling cold to her. Insects droned, faeries dried dew from their wings, birds called out from high above. The forest was waking up, and time was running out. She couldn't help but feel she was wasting it.

Then, quite suddenly, the air above her darkened, and a deluge of rain began pouring over her garden.

She allowed herself to be drenched, too dismayed to even care, much less move. In a second, Snape was by her side, casting a hasty _Impervious_ to shield her from the rain's frigid sting.

"The timing of your charms is a touch… abrupt," he mentioned.

Her head swiveled away from him, feeling ungainly on her neck. Her response was a soft hum.

"Regardless, they seem to be more or less in working order. You have organized them well enough."

Her face scrunched, his compliment threatening to bring her to tears again. "Yeah."

"Your plants are adequately watered, well-supported from the wind. Perhaps another deterrent for insects would suffice."

"Mhm."

There was a pause, and a short sigh, before he prompted, "Miss Croft." When she made no move to respond, he tried once more. " _Cleo._ "

The tears were inevitable that time. She was confronted with the realization that this had all been pointless; she'd gotten exactly what she wanted and it meant nothing. This was as vulnerable as she'd ever seen him, but they'd moved no closer to the truth. They'd approached an impasse that was as inescapable as it was harrowing: He could not reveal to her every hidden facet of his life just as much as she could not tell him that she was about to ruin everything he had built for her.

She was hiding just as much as he was, and she hated herself for it.

He wasn't looking at her directly; the rain sluiced off his shoulders in unhindered rivulets. "If the manner-" He paused to grimace. "Since you appear to find my conduct with Mr. Potter so… _disruptive-_ then… I may _endeavor_ to… maintain a civil address," was his gruff, halting concession.

Her smile was a twitching, meager thing that had a hard time staying affixed to her face.

Snape eyed her, seeming as if he might say more along that vein, but apparently he'd reached his limit. "The prevailing issue is not with your ward, but rather the overarching canopy- your Aconites are not seeing enough sunlight."

Her guilt forced her to slip the facade back on, at least for his benefit. "Even with the sunlight charm from the ward?"

"The Forbidden Forest is, in itself, magical," he told her. "It could likely be interfering with that charm in particular. You will notice I have not bothered with my own plot."

"Because your plants don't need the amount of sunlight mine do?"

"I have indeed chosen species which do not particularly require copious sunlight," he admitted, "but you are not afforded that same luxury. Your samples have been sourced from around the world for a reason."

"So we have to get rid of the canopy."

"Precisely. Allow the natural sunlight to do the work for you, rather than wrestling with your sun charms for the next several hours."

Her eyes went to the treeline. "I've never tried to cut tree boughs before."

"A standard cutting charm is not ideal from this distance. And too, it would be unfortunate to destroy the garden entirely with a stray fallen branch."

"There are non-standard cutting charms?"

"Of a sort," was his vague reply. "I am familiar with one which might serve your purposes."

"Okay."

He brandished his wand. " _Sectumsempra._ Slashing wand movement. Variable focus," he rattled off his standard summary. "It will carve in the direction of your wand's trajectory. For a single, clean slice, use a precision focus. For a wider range made up of many small cuts, less controlled, you will use an areal focus. For this exercise, the latter will suffice; separating the branch into many small pieces will protect the plants below."

She swirled her wand hand in a circle that encompassed a section of the boughs. "Like this?"

"Yes."

Her first attempt split the branch lengthwise, one half of it sagging downward and splintering where it was bent over.

"Your focus is too narrow. Try again."

The next slash of her wand was broad, forming shallow slits in the bark.

"Better."

When she cast the spell once more, the canopy broke, a cavalcade of wood chips pelting down on them both. Only a pale, diffused light entered the clearing then but, come noon, her Aconites would be able to see the sun

"Well done."

She busied herself with picking stray splinters from her hair as she remarked, "I've never heard of that spell before."

"I imagine not," was Snape's breezy rejoinder. "Suffice it to say, you will never hear of it again. And nor will you teach it to anyone else."

Her confusion gave way to shock; it dawned on her that what he'd just shared was likely intensely personal. An act of trust that both sickened her and forced unquestioning compliance. "Of course."

He murmured a counter charm. The lighted strings attached to their chests disappeared, and he moved to hand her ward back to her. The moment she took hold of the ratty cloth, Snape said, "One further stipulation, Miss Croft."

She lifted her chin. "Yes?"

"There is nothing this spell cannot sever." He let the cloth fall into her hands. "Nothing at all."

She observed him as bent toward her, expression gone severe.

"Be mindful to direct your wand wisely."

"You know I couldn't." She grimaced. "I _wouldn't._ "

His rigid stare lingered for a moment, but all he said was, "Your Aconites should begin flowering within the week, I expect."

She forced herself to smile. "They'll be alright during the holidays?"

"I will remain at the castle."

"Ah… right. Thank you."

Snape glanced in the direction of the rising sun. "Now, if I am not mistaken, you have somewhere to be."

"Right," she exhaled, bending over to gather her things. "Are you sure you're alright to finish up?"

"I do believe I will manage to find it in me," was his dry remark as he turned his back to her.

Cleo was halfway back to the trail leading back to the castle when she stopped. She glanced down at her feet. "Professor?"

His attention was inquisitive as he partially turned her way.

There was a dark, sobering moment where she considered telling him everything. Begging for his help. Apologizing for daring to squander everything he'd done to help her. Admitting how terrified she was of the possible consequences. Confessing that there was a part of her so cowardly and self-centered that it didn't want to bear all the risks.

It lasted only the span of a blink. She forced herself to take a breath.

"I promised Thea I'd come with her to class as she tries to ease back in," she said instead. "Is that okay?"

His expression was inscrutable. "Very well."

"I'll make good use of my time." She didn't know why she was still trying to sell something he'd already accepted. "I can assist you, or grade papers, if need be."

"Do as you like, Miss Croft."

"Thank you," she said in a tone that sounded awfully like _goodbye._

 _••••••••••_

Cleo's arrival at the meeting spot was heralded by the sound of a door slamming open, rushed steps and panicked breath.

She was hunched over as she entered the empty music room, arms locked behind her back as she shouted to no one in particular, "Clear a table!"

She didn't even know if anyone was actually there, but thankfully someone pulled a nearby work table toward the middle of the room, the sound of clutter falling haphazard to the floor in their wake.

Cleo grunted as she carefully delivered the bundle of nothing onto the surface. When she pulled the cloak down, Violet's hair spilled forth first, wild and tangled. The rest of her slowly materialized as if knitted, piecemeal, from air to flesh. Cleo's hands were on her in an instant.

"Tell me where it hurts."

Violet's expression was flat; her mouth moved, but no sound was forthcoming. It took Cleo a few moments to realize she was still holding the flower. Plucking the stem from between Violet's fingers and setting it aside, she leaned forward and uttered, "What was that?"

"I _said,_ " Violet emphasized, her eyes rolling. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine, you _fell._ "

" _Cleo-_ "

"What happened?" Harry questioned, anxious. "Did you get caught?"

"Snape wasn't even there," Cleo quickly fielded, her focus honed to checking every inch of visible skin on Violet's body. "I completely forgot how violent portkey travel can be to someone not used to it-"

"It wasn't _that_ bad," Violet objected. "I just lost my balance, is all."

"Of course it was _bad._ I completely lost hold of you."

Violet pulled away from Cleo's hands, face scrunching as she sat up slightly, perched on her elbows. "You couldn't even hear me. How could you possibly know how bad of a fall it was?"

Cleo's face looked weighed down by her frown. "You're in a delicate state-"

"No, I'm not," Violet lobbed back, defensive. "I'm getting better. I bet I could've walked up here, if you would've let me."

"Violet," Cleo's stance beside the table shifted as she leaned against it, palms flat on the surface. "I already told you this at the hospital. While you're here, you're _my_ responsibility and if anything happens to you-"

The other girl's expression twitched slightly; a tick in the muscles of her face as her expression tried to match her thoughts, failing part of the way through. Despite this, however, her voice had softened to a more affable, gentle tone when she spoke. " _I know._ "

"So for my peace of mind, _please._ "

Violet winced as she sat up fully. "I don't know; back's a little sore, I guess, and my leg's a bit scrammed, but that's it. It's really not that bad."

Pulling her wand from the pocket of her robes, Cleo went immediately to the task of examining the glowing facsimile of Violet's leg bones with a hastily cast _Intus Videre._

Harry was watching intently, but furtively, his manner altogether… strange. He hovered a distance away, shuffling his feet and eyeing the door every so often as if a ghost might spring thorough at any moment. "Is she okay?" was his hushed inquiry.

"Yeah," Cleo breathed as she took a step back away from the table. "Nothing broken. Not from what I can see, at least."

"I told you," Violet grumbled.

"You can't fault me for checking."

"Yeah, yeah," the girl conceded absently, her eyes scanning the empty room. After a moment, she seemed to notice Harry for the first time. Her brow furrowed into deep grooves as she observed him. "Can you please not stare at me like that?"

He had that look again. That fearful, wide-eyed uncertainty. She realized she was witnessing something momentous: Two people looking past one another. Harry, with all the look of dread at finally meeting the girl he thought he'd killed. Violet, having no idea he was aware of any of it. "Er… sorry. Yeah, I'll… stop." Harry turned away before marching toward the door with stiff footsteps. "I'll just- be out here. To wait."

He awkwardly disappeared into the hallway.

The girl's gaze uncomfortably meandered back to Cleo's. "What's his problem?"

"Nothing," she dismissed. "Just stressed. Putting the Masquerade together has been chaotic."

Violet's nose scrunched. "Masquerade? That's what you're calling this?"

"Oh, not, like, _this,_ " Cleo's head shook as she gestured between them. "A club is organizing a dance, is all. It's happening in about an hour or so."

"Oh." Her brow furrowed again as she seemed to have a hard time processing that bit of information. "Didn't think someone like Harry Potter would help out with a school dance."

Cleo canted her head before craning it over her shoulder to look at the door. "You knew who he was?"

"I mean, yeah," Violet replied. "He and I were in the same year. You'd kind of have to be an idiot to not notice him."

"You should've said hi."

The girl squinted. "Why? He doesn't know me."

Cleo's laugh was explosive. "Well, yeah? That's kind of why you introduce yourself when you meet someone new." Admittedly, there was something uncomfortable and almost _devious_ about the idea that Harry knew more about her than she even realized. Even things that Cleo was beginning to regret divulging, no matter how necessary that information had been.

Violet's lips curled in resentment. "Don't do that."

She blinked. "What?"

"Talk down to me."

Cleo's posture unwound. "Violet, I-"

"Yeah. I know. You weren't meaning to. That's fine. But I'd be a shite friend if I didn't point it out to you, right?"

"I was going to say sorry," Cleo admitted, a slight sardonic curl to her lips. "But you're right. I appreciate the honesty."

The girl's nose wrinkled. "I didn't tell you about… _things_ because I'm too dumb to figure out stuff like this myself," she explained. "I just meant- I don't know. I don't know him. Don't really get why he's doing this, either. I don't really want to introduce myself right now. How would I, anyway? 'Hi, my name's Violet, and my drama is the entire reason you're basically going to get expelled from school. Want to be friends?'"

Cleo walked up to the table. "You're stressed."

"I'm stressed."

"Is there anything I can do to make you feel safer?"

"No."

Cleo tried to make eye contact, but it was impossible. "Are you sure?"

"Cleo, like," the girl waffled, her discomfort making itself known as she fidgeted in place. "It's not about anything you can or can't do, you know? You could literally lock me in the most securely warded and guarded place _anywhere_ and I'm still going to be paranoid that there's-" The girl gritted her teeth as she winced and cast her furtive glance to one of the walls. "Like-"

"I understand. It's not that easy to feel safe."

Violet's eyes darted to the ceiling as she rocked slightly in place. "This is stupid."

"What's stupid?"

"This _plan,_ " she complained. Her fingers drummed on the inside of her thighs as she scowled into the room. "I mean, not being funny, but what am I doing here?"

"I told you that you wouldn't be there while Narcissa-"

"Yeah, but what if nothing _happens?_ " Violet blurted out. "Like I've lost the plot over nothing, and it's fine like the Auror said, and now I'm _here_ and-"

"Violet."

The girl fell silent.

Cleo was bent in front of her, hands resting on either side of her knees. "Look at me."

It took a while for Violet's eyes to obey: Their gaze went on a meandering, stumbling journey from ceiling to floor to mouth to shoulder to table to hand to shoulder again before locking onto Cleo's, intent and apprehensive.

"I believe you."

The girl's expression twitched slightly before deadening again. "But he could be _right-_ "

"I _believe_ you."

Violet's body lurched slightly as a tremor roiled through her body. Her hands grasped each other in front of her chest. "What if-"

"I. _Believe._ You."

The girl looked like she wanted to cry, but the rest of her wasn't willing to cooperate. Her limbs had to work through a few more anxious fidgets before her head was turning away, breaking their eye contact. "Will you hate me?"

Cleo spoke with a careful, resolute conviction. "No."

"Will Harry hate me?"

Again, equally adamant. "No."

"Will-"

"No one's going to hate you."

Violet leaned back before taking a bracing breath. "Cleo, I'm _really_ sorry that-"

"Stop."

"But-"

"No."

The girl's nose scrunched again. "We should talk about it-"

"There's nothing to talk about."

" _Cleo-_ "

"I don't want to talk about it."

The girl raised her head a little, daring to make eye contact again. "That's not very adult of you."

The levity of the statement, at least, gave Cleo the room to chuckle. "Probably not."

Violet's shoulders drooped as she looked away again, the subdued fretting taking hold of her limbs once more.

Cleo felt a familiar compulsion emerging. "Can I hug you?"

The girl was staring down at her fingers as they picked at each other. "No."

Violet was perhaps the only person whose rejection could make her smile. "How about sitting next to you? Is that okay?"

Her hair flicked over her shoulder as she gave a solitary, jerky nod.

Cleo perched herself beside the girl, observing her for a few moments more before she broke their silence. "I need you to stop thinking that."

She could see the wrinkles forming around the corners of Violet's eyes as she squinted, incredulous, at her hands. "What?"

"That this is your fault."

Her skin smoothed out. "Feels like it."

"It isn't."

"Okay." Reluctant, resigned - not like she _meant_ it.

"I mean it. If it hadn't been for-"

"I get it."

Cleo raised an eyebrow at her. "I haven't even-"

"Yeah. I know. I _get_ it."

"Violet-"

"I know what you're going to say," she asserted. "And I don't want to go there. I get it."

It was as good a boundary as any, Cleo supposed. She drew away and expelled a loud gust of air as she leaned back against her palms.

It was a few more moments yet before Violet braved speaking again. "Are you disappointed you don't get to go to the dance?"

"That? No." Cleo snorted. "Spending an evening surrounded by teenagers? No thanks."

"I'm enough, yeah?" Thankfully, she could hear the slight smile in Violet's voice.

"Between you and the Golden Trio, I'm about at my limit," Cleo joked. She turned to look at the girl beside her. "Why do you ask?"

She shrugged. "Don't know; people usually find those things fun."

"Do _you_ want to go?"

The corners of her eyes were crinkling again. "I didn't even know it was happening until five minutes ago, so no, not really. Besides," she lifted her legs up onto the table top, "it'd be stupid to put me in a crowd. You know, where people could _see_ me?"

"It's called a Masquerade for a reason, you know."

The girl's cheeks puffed up as she huffed, gesturing to her hospital gown with some measure of disgust. "Sorry, did this look like a costume to you?"

"No, but-"

" _And_ aren't we supposed to be watching for when it's time to go back?"

Cleo's frown was contemplative, if a touch sardonic. "Well, we won't have to-"

" _Shut up._ "

Cleo's eyes widened in surprise. "What?"

"Don't joke about that," the girl warned. "It's not funny."

"It might be a _little_ funny."

Violet foisted a determined glare at the floor. "We're going to wait."

Cleo scooched down the table to dismount. "Violet-"

Just then, the door slammed open again. A violent flinch surged through Violet's body; she fell back further down the table as Cleo's head snapped toward the sound. Seconds later, Hermione's voice was spilling into the air, hasty and a touch out of breath. "Oh, _good,_ you're here. I hope this-" The girl halted mid-stride as she looked Cleo over. "Why aren't you dressed?"

Cleo's frame relaxed as she heard Violet take a few calming breaths beside her. "What do you mean?"

Hermione's stare darted between the pair of girls, baffled. "The Ball's starting in thirty minutes. I brought a mask and dress for Violet."

"I didn't know we were going?"

Hermione's shoulders drew back as her eyes narrowed, incredulous. "What else were you going to do? Bunker down here?"

Cleo matched Hermione with a disbelieving look of her own. "I mean, yes?"

"'The perfect time to slip away is when everyone can see you, but they're too busy to take real notice,'" Harry recited, emerging from behind his friend. Hermione shot him an odd look, but he only shrugged. "Just something Ron said. I think it applies here too- if anyone finds you in here, they'll have questions. A teacher might even recognize Violet. But if you're just in the crowd with us, wearing masks like everyone else, enjoying the dance… You're less likely to be bothered."

"Violet's already said she's not comfortable with going," Cleo told them, slipping her hands into her robe pockets.

"Well, you'll have to do _something,_ " Hermione fretted. "The choir has practice here tonight."

"We wouldn't let anything happen." Harry took an earnest step forward. "And, anyway… Be a shame if you missed Hermione's big speech."

The girl in question scowled. "Speaking of- I ought to get back before Ann decides to rearrange the whole schedule entirely." Unceremoniously, she shoved the garments she was holding right into Harry's arms. Casting a quick look in Cleo's direction, she finished, "I'll keep an eye out for you if you decide to come."

With that, she stepped out of the room, deliberately quieter than when she had entered it.

Cleo thought that the three of them would have to stand there in an uncomfortable, stilted quiet when Violet spoke, eyes locked on the dress draped over Harry's arm. "I don't think it's a good idea." There was a distinct flash of teeth as she grimaced, before she schooled her expression toward something more neutral. "What if something happens and-"

"We'll take care of it," Harry said at once, not a trace of doubt in his tone. "I mean, we came up with this plan, didn't we? We intend to carry it out. So… why not enjoy your time here while it lasts?"

"Harry-" At this, Cleo witnessed the boy's countenance twist into something grim, as if he couldn't quite come to grips with the idea of this girl - this _very_ girl - uttering his name. "I'm just really sorry about all this-"

Well, he wasn't about to stand for that, either. "It's no trouble," was his quick interruption. "I… er. It- It's like this, um-" He exhaled, clearly frustrated with himself. "Look, the thing is, we just don't want anything bad to happen to you. And I… want to be sure of it, okay? And, well. It would really help if you stuck close to us, so we could all keep watch. Four pairs of eyes are better than one, I think."

Violet didn't appear any more convinced, but surprised Cleo when she made eye contact with her again as the girl prompted her with an inquisitive, "Cleo?"

She shrugged with her arms crossed. "It's the best plan we've got."

"What about you, though?" she asked, her frown growing more prominent. "You don't have a dress-"

"I'm a million years too old to actually be attending," Cleo remarked, raising an eyebrow. "School robes are fine. For all anyone knows, I'm chaperoning. Like the teachers."

"They won't be getting dressed up either?"

Cleo forced a scoff. "I doubt it. Snape's going - could you even _imagine_ him in dress robes?"

The girl's expression seemed less strained, but she wasn't all that entertained. "Probably not…"

Harry, however, had a wicked grin on his face. "No, but I _have_ seen him in a dress."

The two girls directed their attention to him within seconds. "In your free time?" Cleo half accused, half teased.

"Thankfully not," he quipped. "But you should have seen it: Snape in ladies' stockings, wearing a hat with a vulture on!"

"I heard about that," Violet stated, subdued. She didn't sound amused at all, which didn't bode well. "I never quite understood. It's okay for men to wear women's clothes, too, you know."

"Well- _yeah,_ " Harry dissembled, his fingers fidgeting against the dress in his hands; he looked to be struggling to find an appropriate way to respond to Violet's critique.

Cleo stepped in as she held out her hands. "Can I have that? I think I should be the one to help Violet dress, yeah?"

"Right." He seemed more than happy to divest the clothes into her care. "Yeah, I uh- I'll see you down there, actually. I…" His face flushed. "I'm… meeting someone."

Thankful for the opportunity to push things toward something more jovial, Cleo offered him a honeyed smile. "For the Ball?"

He grew more uncomfortable, if such a thing were even possible. "Yes…?"

She couldn't describe what she was feeling around then; an odd amalgam of warm, blithe emotions that seemed to center around a sense of… _pride._ Maybe it was stupid, even inappropriate, but… "Well? Don't keep them waiting. Go on." Her head motioned toward the door.

"Right." Harry blew out a tense breath. " _Right._ Yeah. Erm… See you."

His departure was just as demure as Hermione's had been, if a bit more fraught with anxiety.

Cleo was quick to turn on the girl. "How would you like to do this?"

Violet's lips pursed. "I don't know? You're a nurse… sort of. You've basically seen all my…" Her brow knitted together as if she found the next word utterly bizarre to say. "… bits."

"When you were unconscious and didn't have much say in the matter, yes," Cleo agreed. "But since you're not, I thought you'd like some input in how you get changed."

The girl looked rather helpless sitting there, uncertain how to position herself. "Not used to doing things by myself anymore," was her meek admission.

Cleo's expression softened as she took a step toward her. "We really don't have to go if you don't want to, Violet."

Her head shook, hair brushing against her shoulders. "We should."

Cleo placed the dress on the table. "Want to give it a shot, then?"

Violet's eyes darted between the dress and the woman before her. "You can turn around but… can you stand there still? Just in case?"

"Of course."

After she turned, it took a while for Violet to shimmy off the desk into a standing position. The landing wasn't unstable from what she could hear, but the girl had to pause again and stabilize herself against the surface, her body hovering close to Cleo's back. Every so often, Cleo noticed a shift in the air that felt as if Violet was going to take hold of her in order to steady herself but didn't. The dress slipped off the counter in Cleo's periphery, accompanied by a series of sounds: heated, frustrated breaths; cloth hitting the floor, slipping against skin; uncertain, wobbly shuffling of feet. Somewhere along the line, Violet's hand came up onto Cleo's shoulder, holding tight.

"Sorry," she excused herself. "Trying to get the back part, but-"

"Do you need help?"

"No," the girl said at once. There was another grunt, the sound of Violet tripping and catching herself. Cleo nearly turned around, but Violet's squeeze against her shoulder kept her in place. There was another moment of hesitation before an annoyed, defeated, " _Yes._ "

The dress didn't look awful on her, really. Cleo had expected it to be more baggy; it certainly wasn't tight, but it clung, at least. Hermione, in all her infinite wisdom, had scrounged up a garment that covered all the salient spots, including lacy sleeves that ended high up on the wrist.

Something Violet, at first glance, didn't appear to care for all that much.

Even as Cleo latched the buttons on the back of the dress, her arms would draw outwards every so often as if she were trying to shake something off.

Cleo tried to get a look at Violet's face as she finished the top button. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"Are your arms bugging you?"

Her mouth twitched as she admitted with some difficulty, "Don't like lace."

"Oh," Cleo breathed. "Bad sensation?"

"Yeah." Violet shook her head as her arms flexed uncomfortably again. "I can deal with it."

No, because it wouldn't do.

And without hesitating, Cleo grasped the frilly edge of one wrist and began the first tear, her movements halted by the slap of Violet's other hand against hers as she tried to pull away.

"What are you _doing?_ "

Cleo raised an eyebrow. "Fixing it."

"But this is Hermione's dress-"

"She won't mind," Cleo dismissed before she shrugged. "And if she does, I'll pay her back."

Violet made a few more paltry objections - nothing that sounded like actual phrases, more like hemming and hawing - before she relented, allowing Cleo to continue on her sloven, haphazard endeavor of tearing the lace sleeves from the dress.

When she finished, there was a pile of black strips huddled together on the tabletop.

"That better?" Cleo prompted as Violet's arms waved out to test the air.

The girl seemed too embarrassed to look at her. "Yeah."

"How about the dress itself? Is that material fine?"

"It's soft," the girl observed, biting her lip. "It feels okay."

"You sure?"

Violet's irritation flared at that. "It's _fine,_ Cleo."

Cleo attempted to use her smile to diffuse the tension. "Okay."

Violet took a few cautious steps around the room as her arms started to settle down at her sides. Then, with a cursory glance to her wrists, she approached Cleo again, proffering them to her. "I can see them, though."

Cleo's stare roved over the tattoos very briefly. "They're not that conspicuous," she concluded. "Besides, people don't know what they are. Some might ask. Most of them won't know they're there."

" _I_ know they are, though," the girl stressed.

The corners of Cleo's lips dipped into a frown. _Ah._

It was an inelegant solution, but as Cleo slipped her outer robes off and displayed them to Violet, it seemed the most reasonable. "How does this feel?"

Her fingers trailed over the seams of cotton fabric, lips twisting.

"Is it okay?"

Violet's fingers retracted as she stared at the robe, uncertain. "Would it look off?"

"Black goes with anything," Cleo promised. "If anyone asks, you didn't realize how cold it would be and your very kind friend offered it so you could stay warm."

It exaggerated her smallness when she wore it; covered the places she didn't want to see. Which, as Violet wrapped the entirety of the outer robe around her silhouette, was more than just the tattoos.

She tried more than once to close it around her and keep it there. But as it continued to fall open after a few frustrated attempts, she gave up, twisting over toward the table as she pulled her hair over her shoulder.

"You look fine." It felt like the only thing Cleo could possibly say. "Do you want to see?"

Violet's answer was a quick, cutting, " _No._ "

Cleo's smile couldn't quite stick. "Okay."

"I'm not-" Violet's neck rolled against her shoulder as she looked away. "I'm not _ready._ "

Right. It had probably been a while since Violet had even remotely been near her reflection, and a month since she'd started healing. It was probably best not to dwell on the subject; if she wasn't ready, she wasn't ready.

So, Cleo made a quick half-turn to the table to grasp the mask. "I'm guessing you don't care for things on your face either, yeah?"

The girl was slow to answer. "Yeah."

"Just hold this where it's most comfortable." Violet obeyed, grasping the mask by the edge as Cleo held up her wand. " _Wingardium Leviosa. Haeresco._ " The sticking charm adhered the offending garment to air, hovering a few centimeters from her face.

"How's that?"

The pads of Violet's fingers traced the edges of the mask. Her eyes were downcast. "Cleo?"

"Hm?"

"What do I look like?"

A girl, enveloped in black, stood before her. The dress cut a nice enough silhouette, cinching gently at her waist, though the style wasn't particularly suited to her in general. Understandable, given that it was Hermione's dress, but at least the neckline was a flattering V-shape, softening the protrusion of Violet's collarbone. Cleo's outer robe further obscured the gauntness of her frame, but the mask was an elegant accent to her face, lacy and sequined.

"You look like… Violet," Cleo said with some finality. "Just, Violet."

Violet let out a breath that sounded perilously close to a cry. However, her face was unmarred by even the suggestion of distress.

Eventually, her arms crossed over each other, protective, as she looked up at Cleo. "You're really going to do this."

Cleo experienced and quelled the impulse to reach out for her, a twitch that started and ended at her fingertips. "I know."

The girl's tongue laved over her bottom lip as she vacillated from one foot to the other, uncertain. "I think I'm okay for you to hug me."

Cleo's hair slid from shoulder to back as she tilted her head. "Is it for you, or for me?"

She saw Violet wince from behind her mask. "You."

Cleo couldn't help it: A soft laugh ripped through her throat as she leaned forward and walked past her.

"C'mon, we're going to be late."

 _••••••••••_

The Great Hall was absolutely transformed.

Fans of silver streamers gleaming in low candlelight, ice sculptures standing taller than students, crystalline snowflakes descending in gentle eddies, pale ribbons flowing through air in ghostly curlicues, glowing fountains of sparkling drinks, little colored chocolates arranged in bouquets, glistening icicles dangling from the raised platform, pristine table settings awaiting a banquet, swan-shaped folded napkins sliding along tablecloth surfaces as if they were taking a turn about a placid lake.

A star-strewn night sky. An assortment of fancy dresses. An entryway fashioned out of a rainbowed collage of masks. Everywhere, a lustrous sight. Everyone, hiding their faces.

Cleo was no stranger to the all-encompassing nature of wizarding fixtures, but even so, there was something distinctly _excessive_ about the pomp and circumstance of it. Something a little contrived. For a gathering that was supposed to be made for and in support of Muggleborns, she couldn't help feeling a little out-of-place.

It was going to be a long evening, she could tell.

And, as was immediately apparent upon arrival, not _just_ because of the decor.

"Violet?"

It was a ridiculously idiotic thing to look over, in retrospect. A contingency they should've planned for.

"Merlin, is that _you?_ "

The idea that, just _perhaps,_ there would be people who might be able to recognize her, no matter how dolled up she was.

Upon being accosted, Violet pulled her hair over her shoulder, fingers drawing through the intermingled blue and black strands, accusatory.

They probably should've done something about that, Cleo belatedly realized. Not that she knew the first thing about permanent dyeing charms. Or whether such a thing even existed.

Cleo was the first to turn toward the source of the sound, with Violet trailing meekly behind. Padma Patil was still crossing from the hall into the entryway, her manner of dress quite striking. Considering the theme of the Ball, it was distinctly odd that she was adorned in bright, summer yellow. The bodice of the dress was fitted, sleek across her shoulders where a large brooch shaped like a daisy lay in the center of the neckline, and it tapered down into many thin, petaled layers of fabric. The girl herself carried off the look with a sanguine confidence, boldly sans mask, and her head was held high as she weaved around several other students to greet them.

Almost as soon as she arrived, Violet's demeanor changed entirely. In a maneuver that surprised Padma just as much as it did Cleo, the girl threw her arms around the approaching Ravenclaw and let out a high pitched, "Padma!"

The girl in question stared down, wide eyed, limbs hanging limply by her sides before a sense of propriety snapped into place. In a second, she wrapped Violet in a brief, albeit good natured, embrace before pulling away. "Uh, it's nice to see you, too."

Cleo didn't recognize Violet at all. The girl looked positively _bubbly._ "I didn't know you'd be here!"

"I could say the same for you," Padma laughed, her hands lingering as they held Violet's elbows. "You doing alright?"

"Oh, yeah," Violet gasped. "I'm alright. And you?"

"Great," Padma supplied, if a little awkwardly, before her eyes trailed to Cleo. "Sorry, didn't catch your name?"

"Cleo."

"Right, I remember you from the meeting," Padma offered by way of explanation. "Are you two…?"

Cleo's head tilted. "No."

"She just invited me."

"I didn't know you knew any of the older students," Padma observed.

"We met this past summer," Cleo smoothly lied. "Our parents attend the same Muggle organization. Concordia."

"Never heard of it, sorry," Padma excused herself, drawing her arms back over her chest. "But that's nice, though."

"It's a bit like E.A.R.W.I.G., actually," Cleo added, finding her hands attempting to stuff themselves in her pockets, only to realize that Violet was wearing said pockets. Her palms smoothed over her skirt. "Which is why I thought this seemed like something Violet would like."

Padma didn't seem all that interested. "Oh, yeah, that makes sense." Her eyes were scanning the area behind them, searching for something. "Are you, uhm, thinking about coming back to school, Violet?"

The girl's smile was tremulous. "Maybe?"

"I really hope you do," Padma said. "Sorry for startling you like that. When I saw you, I just - thought I'd say hi."

Violet nodded. "I'm glad you did."

Padma's eyes darted back briefly to Violet before she cracked a grin. "Sorry, I'm just trying to find my date… Oh!" Her heels clacked against the stone flooring as she made their way past them, but she suddenly caught herself and turned halfway toward them. "I hope you have a really lovely time! Maybe talk to you later?"

Violet let out a breath. "Definitely, yeah!"

"Okay! Bye then!"

Padma crossed the room, distinctly toward the stage, where Hermione was pacing up and down, conversing with Professor Burbage.

The second the Ravenclaw was far enough away, Violet's form unwound. Her expression blunted. She let out another trembling breath.

Cleo raised an eyebrow at her. "You good?"

"Knackered," the girl quietly replied.

"You handled that… very well."

Violet was watching Padma from across the room. "I told you it was stupid to come here-"

Cleo reached to grasp Violet by the shoulder, but forced her hand to fall away before it got too close. "It's fine."

"It's _not-_ "

"No one knows about what happened to you," Cleo asserted. "You're still underage; Poke took your privacy very seriously. No visitors. No _Prophet._ No one outside of the Aurors in charge of your investigation. As far as anyone's concerned, you're a graduate who has every right to be here."

"But what if-"

"It doesn't matter." Cleo took a step forward to dodge an incoming couple, pulling Violet with her. "Just relax. Have fun."

"I don't want to get you in trouble." Violet's expression was pained.

And Cleo's smile was just as pitying. "Listen-"

"Hey, you're here!"

Harry emerged from the quickly growing crowd with his date in tow. He was dressed in a far more dapper fashion than she was used to, but even so, her eyes had a hard time sticking on him when the girl on his arm - Luna Lovegood, which was a shock in its own right - was so much more interesting to look at: Her dress was plain, white, and vertically rippled, hanging just above her knees, but her mask was an intense, metallic red. Less of a standard face covering and more of a mind-bending head ornament, the mask was made up of thin metal strips which curved, coiled, and interlocked, weaving themselves in her hair, alighting on the corners of her eyes, caressing her ears, and loitering in lazy curlicues across her nose and forehead. Beneath the mask, her face was rendered further obscured by swirls of white and black face paint and, beneath her short slit-sleeve, there was an array of _hundreds_ of colored ribbons tied to her arms. Whenever she moved, they fluttered behind her like a feathery curtain.

Attired in matching black-and-white, Harry still looked dull by comparison, despite his clean buttoned shirt and the sharp cut of his robes. "Not much for dressing up, then?" he commented with a teasing smile.

Cleo allowed herself to shrug. "Wouldn't want to upstage anyone."

Violet's disposition had taken another jarring turn: Her eyes brightened considerably as she regarded the new girl, lips curved into a smile. "I _love_ your mask."

The dreamy blonde raised her chin a little. "Oh, thank you."

Watching Violet was surreal. "Did you paint it yourself?"

"A bit, yes," Luna continued, her voice sounding more like a sigh. "My friend Megan helped with the color-"

While the two girls were still talking, Harry sidled closer to Cleo. "Hey, er… Just so you know, I saw Malfoy here earlier."

 _That_ pronouncement was enough to draw Cleo's attention away from Violet's gregarious display. "Wait, seriously?"

"Yeah." He frowned, eyes sliding across a few nearby faces. "I haven't seen him since, so maybe he was just in for dinner. But I'll keep an eye out anyway."

Cleo scanned the crowd herself, but couldn't recognize anyone in particular. Not that it would've been _easy_ under the circumstances; everyone was wearing masks. Even if Malfoy hadn't bothered to dress up, trying to spot him in the utter chaos of a hundred students milling about would be near to impossible. As Cleo's lips curled into a pained, uncertain grimace, she was careful to lower her voice. "Do you think we should leave, then?"

His eyebrows raised. "Don't think he'd try anything with all these teachers here."

That wasn't all that comforting. "Why the hell would he show up like this?"

"Considering he has a habit of acting mental these days? Who knows."

Cleo's lips twisted. "You- uhm, stole that thing from him, right?"

"Yeah, I've got it," he said. "Or- well. Ron has."

"Does Malfoy know you took it?"

There was a sheepish shift to his mien. "… Yeah, actually."

 _Shit._ "What if he's here to take it back…?"

"If he _is,_ " Harry stressed, looking at her directly, "then it's nothing for you to worry about. I can handle him."

"… Harry?"

His date captured his attention immediately, despite the fact her address was not particularly demanding at all. "Oh, ah… Is it starting?"

"Megan's saved us a spot." The blonde pointed out her friend, who was practically bouncing in her seat at the sight of them.

"Right, ehm," Harry turned Cleo's way again, apologetic. "If he comes after me, I'll be prepared." Her doubt must have shown on her face, since he laid a hand on her arm briefly. " _Don't worry._ "

Luna gazed at Cleo with a saccharine smile as she grasped Harry by the arm and pulled him toward the seats without a care in the world. They practically _floated_ together across the hall.

And there was Violet again, her posture drooping as a slight frown sagged her features.

Cleo's hands looked for pockets that weren't there again; a nervous tick that was growing rather annoying, if she were honest. "Why do you keep doing that?"

Violet's gaze made a slow sweep toward her. "Doing what?"

Cleo's eyes practically crossed as her lips curled into an over exaggerated, saccharine grin before her countenance shifted back to neutrality a fraction of a second later.

Violet rolled her eyes. "It's called being friendly, Cleo."

"Well I don't remember you being like that with me-"

"I was," the girl claimed. "Just- _different._ Because you were being creepy."

Cleo pouted. "I wasn't being _creepy._ I was trying to be nice-"

"Hello, everyone, welcome!" Hermione's voice boomed over the noise of the gathered masses, instantly quelling half the conversation in the room. Her wand was in one hand, directed to her throat, and a small rectangle of parchment was in the other, slightly bent in her grip. As Cleo and Violet scrambled to find a pair of seats, Hermione passed by what looked to be a jazz band and walked further toward the center of the stage, her floral, peach-colored gown flowing gently at her heels. Nervously readjusting one of her off-the-shoulder sleeves, she glanced toward the side of the stage. Padma was positioned at the foot of the steps and, when their eyes met, she gave Hermione a quick thumbs up.

Stark beneath the spotlight, Hermione took in a measured, revitalizing breath which was, unfortunately, magnified to the whole room. A few amused titters rippled across the students, but she didn't seem to notice, shuffling her feet as she glanced down at the parchment in her hand. "I'd like to thank you all for coming, and for all the support given to the Equal Academic Representation in Wizarding Institutions Group."

Cleo led Violet toward an empty, circular table on the outskirts of the gathering, ducking as they passed in front of several onlookers.

"For- for those who don't know me," Hermione stumbled over her words, her voice a little tremulous. "My name is Hermione Granger. I'm the founder of this club, and I'm a sixth-year student… studying for nine N.E.W.T.s, and, ah… I've been a Gryffindor prefect for over a year-"

A voice interrupted her, one which was just as expected as it was unwelcome. "Let's have a round of applause for our fearless leader!" Ann declared with a dazzling smile, her enthusiastic, high-pitched voice drowning out Hermione as she walked past the band and across the stage. The crowd clapped politely, but she hardly seemed deterred by their tepid response; rather, she made an expansive gesture which showed off her poised figure and lavish gown. To make things worse, she was quite literally _sparkling._ Festooned with a vast gradient of blue silks and decorated with thousands of white gemstones, Ann's every movement was dazzling in the extreme, drawing attention effortlessly. "It is absolutely _marvelous_ to see so many faces here! Welcome, everyone, to the Masquerade Ball!"

The cheers from the gathered masses grew more genuine. She favored them with another smile, this one a little more demure. "What an exciting night we have planned for you! I'd like to thank all those who helped us put this little soirée together! You know who you are!"

She sure did know how to whip up a crowd; they were even louder that time. Ann was positively glowing as she waited for the noise to die down but, just as she was about to address them again, something unexpected happened.

Hermione spoke up.

"And, as club president, I would like to personally thank Miss Ann Rochford, head of the planning committee for this Ball!" she announced, her voice decidedly less energetic, but quite resolute. Most of the audience did their due with applause, unaware of what had just occurred, but Ann herself looked stricken, eyes a little wide, the smile sliding off her face before she seemed to consciously renew it.

"Yes, well- _Thank_ you, of course-" she uttered, her demeanor stilted.

"We are all so grateful for your hard work," Hermione continued, her stare pointed directly at Ann. "And now, all that's left for you is to enjoy the party. I will take it from here."

Ann swept her eyes across the students as if she were searching for a word which might keep her on the stage while also saving face in front of so many people, but evidently she found none. Her smile was remarkably weaker when she performed a practiced little curtsy to the audience, who cheered her on one last time, before she finally walked off.

On brief inspection, it was clear many of the other Slytherins had noticed. In particular, Rhys Urquhart was sporting a rather severe frown as his girlfriend resumed her seat beside him. Cleo made eye contact with Harry, who was grinning from ear to ear, and winked as Hermione resumed speaking. "Thank you, all of you, again, for coming," she said, not a trace of nervousness about her voice any longer. "It means so much that you are here, and willing to learn more about what we stand for. Our club, which is on track to become a Ministry-sanctioned organization by this time next year, was formed to help protect Muggleborns from social and academic discrimination, and to preserve our right to express ourselves as people who exist between two separate communities: the magical, and the non-magical. I intend for this group to steadily grow more able to extend a helping hand to all those who are feeling marginalized by any form of purism, abuse, or bigotry."

Her audience was, for the most part, quiet and attentive. There was, however, some measure of boredom evident, particularly from a nearby table made up mostly of what looked to be fourth-years. They fiddled with silverware and whispered amongst themselves, casting occasional glances at Hermione.

"Headmaster Dumbledore has recently announced that, in three weeks' time, every student currently attending Hogwarts will embark on a tour of the Ministry of Magic, in the interest of education and recruiting opportunities. This is a _huge_ step forward in expanding cultural literacy and integrating those of non-magical upbringing, but it is not enough. Ex-Headmistress Dolores Jane Umbridge has once again resumed her post as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, and has set her sights on _suggesting_ -" This word was uttered with utmost contempt "-that select departments receive severe budget cuts and downsizing immediately. Conveniently, these 'unnecessary' departments are those concerned with Muggle cooperation, regulation, and protection. We _cannot_ allow this to happen. And as such, I have arranged for us to join with employees of the Misuse of Magic Offices, as well as five allied departments, in a general strike to protest these cuts. With all our voices together, we can put pressure on the Minister and instigate _real_ change - a change for the better, where every last one of us can feel safe in our places of school or work, and a sense of belonging and pride in the communities we call home."

There was collected applause; the loudest coming from Terry Boot, who was practically _hollering_ in excitement. The applause tapered off with his voice crying out, "Atta girl, Granger!"

Her amplified, nervous chuckle suffused the space before she cleared her throat to continue. "In this room, we are all equals. Each of us is stripped of title, rank, house crest, and blood status. We are _people_ only, gathered together in harmony for a common purpose. It is my hope that, when this night is over, when your masks are finally removed and you return to your normal lives, that you will remember to carry with you that same respect and dignity for each person you come in contact with. And if you find you cannot sit still, if there is a fire in your heart for the suffering you have seen, or in defense of the people you love, then I ask that you join with us, and lend your strength to our cause."

The support in the room was deafening, despite only a third of the school being there. Most of the noise was concentrated in one section of the room, though; Cleo spotted several people near Harry standing and cheering. By their exaggerated enthusiasm, she could only assume they were Gryffindors.

Hermione's smile overtook her whole face. "Let's not keep you waiting on the festivities any longer - I want to thank you all again, and please, enjoy yourselves tonight!"

Following her pronouncement, the orchestra began playing a dulcet melody fitting for dinnertime. Professor Burbage was standing at the foot of the stairs, her excited clapping drowned out by the din of conversations resuming. Hermione descended the steps with Padma beside her, wrapping together in a tight embrace at the bottom. Surprisingly, Professor Tenenbaum also rolled up to them in her brightly decorated wheelchair and, even more surprisingly, beckoned the girl down for a hug as well.

"Stay here," Cleo murmured to the girl seated next to her.

Violet didn't sound all that pleased. "Where are you going?"

"I want to congratulate Hermione," she answered before waving down Harry. When their gazes caught, she gestured to Violet and mouthed _watch her;_ the boy acquiesced with a nod.

The girl was protesting as Cleo rose from the chair, one hand grappling her wrist. "Why can't I come?"

" _That_ teacher," she indicated with a slight jerk of the head. She was careful to whisper this next part, "is Minder Tenenbaum's granddaughter. She knows Aurors, too. Just stay here and eat."

Violet's stare lingered on the woman in the wheelchair as she slowly, albeit reluctantly, loosened her grip on Cleo's arm. And as Cleo trotted around the table, she called back after Violet, "I'll be quick!"

The professor and Hermione had only just disengaged when Cleo strode up alongside them; she could hear the tail end of something she'd murmured against Hermione's shoulder: "… wasn't so hard, was it?"

Hermione's answering smile was sheepish.

"Congratulations, Hermione," Cleo greeted upon arrival, her arms waffling to open in uncertain invitation.

Hermione was quick to plunge the two of them into a tight embrace as well. "Thank you."

Cleo patted her on the back. "You did really good."

She looked near to tears when she pulled away. "Thanks, I just- I don't know _how_ I did it, really."

Professor Tenenbaum's voice sounded from behind Hermione, practically _preening._ "Perhaps because you followed some very wise and amazing advice from… who was it again?" Her mock-thoughtful expression was clearly a setup for-

"Why, that would have to be _you,_ now wouldn't it, dear?" Quite suddenly, Ren popped out of the crowd with a little twirl. Her skin and hair were a canary yellow, smile wide with teeth that were as large as a horse's, and her bright blue eyes were wide with oblong pupils, like a frog. A cascade of pastel, rainbow-colored tulle layered asymmetrically down the length of her, bunched at her waist and gathered into huge, floppy bows atop her shoulders. By contrast, Professor Tenenbaum was attired in an overlarge suit jacket that emphasized how emaciated she looked, embroidered with flowers on the shoulders and cuffs, an untucked button-up, and a plain black pencil skirt.

" _Merlin,_ I think you're right," the woman fawned, falling back against her lavender wheelchair with a clatter. "Amazing foresight on your part, I think, Granger." There was a pause, where a devious, conspiratory glint seemed to overtake the professor's gaze. "Seven hundred points to Gryffindor for your utter _brilliance._ "

Hermione lifted her head with alarm, her gaze bouncing from the professor to Cleo to Padma to Ren and back as if searching for an explanation. Ren, however, was entirely oblivious to her distress, too busy clutching the wheelchair for support as her body trembled with laughter.

"Good _lord,_ Bridge, you haven't a shred of mercy, have you?!" she cackled with pure delight, clearly enamoured of this fact. " _Ugh,_ I can't wait to see the look on Snape's face; he's going to be _livid!_ "

"I bloody well hope so," Professor Tenenbaum oozed, head tilted back to admire her partner. "The thrill from my last screaming match with him over Croft's point loss was starting to wear off."

" _Ohh-!_ How cross do you reckon McGonagall's going to be?!" Ren asked with hushed excitement.

The professor's eyes bulged open with glee. "When she has to rebalance the point totals?" Her demeanor was the utter picture of cunning. " _Very._ "

"Think they'll tag team you? Look, they're already glaring about like cats with glasses-!"

The professor hoisted herself upward on the armrests of her wheelchair as she grinned from ear to ear, a loud gasp escaping her. "Have they noticed already?!"

Simultaneously, their heads swiveled around, seeking out Snape and McGonagall. They were indeed standing together, skulking near the far wall, neither looking pleased. Ren's resulting grin was mischievous, but her next words were quite earnest. "Bridge, I swear on Peeve's Porkpie, they're going to do the pose! By God, I can feel it in my _teeth-!_ "

The professor's stare intensified, her next sentence coming out rushed and excited. "C'mon, you _cunts,_ Twin Cross, I know you want to-"

At that moment, both Snape and McGonagall folded their arms. This sent Ren and the professor into a paroxysm of laughter, actually breathless and near to tears as they watched the synchronized display, but Cleo's expression mirrored Hermione and Padma's - that of both vague trepidation and utter bemusement.

"Right." Cleo's hand reassuringly patted Hermione's forearm. "Just wanted to wish you congrats. I think I'll go sit back with Violet." Her smile suddenly exploded onto her face. "You can join us if you want?"

Hermione let out a short breath, her expression relaxing. "Later, I think? Lots to do, yet. But thanks."

Several girls descended on them, then; Cleo wouldn't have known their names even if their faces weren't purposely obscured. "Hermione! That was amazing!" a redhead enthused.

A blonde girl was grinning. "You sounded _proper_ qualified!"

Hermione faded from view as Cleo extracted herself from the group. The Great Hall was filled with voices, as it usually was, but the energy in the room was different. There was a palpable excitement, an air of celebration.

Even Harry looked brighter. As she approached the table, he was speaking animatedly with Violet. "… help with it, I think. Ron and Hermione were up late making all the posters and leaflets."

Though Violet was in full chipper affectation, she couldn't quell her brutal honesty. "They're kind of ugly."

Harry blinked, clearly unsure how to respond. "I… guess?" He squinted about as if he was trying to examine them. "I suppose you would know better than me."

Violet's expression screwed up as she shot Harry a look. "What?"

"I've seen your drawings," he mentioned off-hand. "They're really good."

The girl squinted, suspicious. "How have you seen my drawings…?"

"Oh, er…" Harry's face transformed in an instant, eyes widening with panic. "That's…"

Cleo plopped down unceremoniously beside them. "Having fun?"

"Oh, loads," Harry replied with some relief, removing his mask before scratching at this nose. "I've missed watching Hermione put people in their place."

"That was pretty brilliant, wasn't it?"

Violet was fiddling with a napkin, clearly displeased with the change in subject. "Was she having trouble with that girl then? The posh one?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, she's been a right harpy for weeks."

Violet didn't appear to have much of an opinion on that, her flat affect meeting them impassively as she turned her napkin ring over, food notably untouched. Cleo shifted in her seat after a moment and announced with some aplomb, "Well, I learned something fun about Tenenbaum at any rate."

"Oh really?"

"She likes to fuck with the points," she explained, trying to hide her smile but failing. "So she probably wasn't nearly as mad at me as I thought she was-"

Cleo was interrupted by a tap on her shoulder. As she turned, a familiar voice shouted, " _Surprise!_ Hey, Captain Gabe! Look who it is!"

It was gauche and it was stupid, but her only proper, natural reaction was to scream. Her hands came up to her mouth to stifle it in an instant, but it was too late. There was a turn in the energy of the room, eyes pinning themselves to the epicenter of the disruption, only to find a woman rising from her seat to ensconce her arms around the newcomer and the small child he was holding.

Cal was beaming as he loosened himself from her embrace, and Cleo's voice pitched higher when he transferred the little boy to her in a maneuver that could only be described as graceful. "Hey baby, oh my _God-!_ "

"Mama!" his voice trickled out into laughter as he was beset upon by a myriad of kisses.

"You're here!" She sounded inane; she sounded unhinged. She didn't care. "How did you get here, baby? Oh my _God-_ " She buried her head into his neck as she pulled him tightly to her.

"Unckoh Cow!"

When she looked up, eyes wide with shocked curiosity, Cal's smile had encompassed his entire face, joyous and triumphant. "Well, _y'know._ Might've pulled a few strings here and there."

"Who's this, then?" Harry inquired.

Before she could answer, Cal performed a flourishing little bow, showing off his two-toned dress robes, vertically split between light blue and dark grey, along with a matching harlequin mask. "Caleb Dedrick, at your service! I'd ask the same, but _you_ hardly need an introduction."

Harry's expression was distinctly odd when he asked, "You, er… wouldn't happen to be a Gryffindor, would you?"

Cal barked a laugh. "No, thank Merlin! The lot of them would have driven me _mad,_ I expect."

Gabriel squirmed happily in her arms, hanging tightly around her neck, but when she was finally able to get a proper look at him, she could see he was wearing blue woolen dress robes, a puffy little cravat, and a tiny black cloak, looking properly wizard-like for the first time in his life.

Cleo, still quite overcome, strode up to the two of them, hiking Gabriel up higher on her hip. "Cal, he looks so _cute-_ "

"Yeah, Mum's doing. Got a bit carried away if you ask me, cooing over us both. Apparently, I wore that at my aunt's wedding when I was just a small bean," he explained, shrugging. Then, his gaze grew conspiratorial. "Say, who wore it better: me or him?"

No matter how dramatically Cal drew himself up or popped his collar with an air of grand importance, there simply was no question. Cleo pressed a few more kisses against her son's cheek as she squealed, "My Bedbug, of course!"

Gabriel's hands flew up in excitement as he let out a chorus of laughter. Cal, however, clutched at his heart, mock-wounded as he cried, "No fair! I call nepotism!"

Harry peered at them both with some confusion while Violet seemed preoccupied with her dinner. The former ventured, "I'm guessing you two know each other?"

Cleo inclined her head toward the boy. "Cal is Gabriel's godfather."

"Wait, what?" Cal fumbled with eyebrows raised, animated even in his surprise. "Really? When did this happen?!"

"Probably when you managed to put all this together," she pointed out rather seriously, before her expression brightened as she looked toward her son. "Huh, Bedbug? Did Uncle Cal do a good job?"

The little boy's answer was a chirping, bubbly, " _Train!_ "

"He liked that bit," Cal informed her. "Red like your fire truck, yeah?"

"Yeah!" Gabriel yelped, excitedly bouncing on his mother's hip. "The- the lady gave, um… Sweets! There's a blue one an' a green one an' a red one an' a blue one, uhm… an' a green one, I- ah, I have tenty candy, Mama-" The boy spoke with enthused, animated gestures, underlying every detail of his incoherent story with utmost importance. His pause was only to smile and take a breath before he continued, "Unkoh Cow tell me- ahh, tenty. There tenty tree! And train go-!" His lips puckered as if he were trying to whistle, but the air puttered out in a loud raspberry.

Cal grinned. "He means compartment twenty-three. Had the royal treatment with the whole train to ourselves."

"Oh," Cleo breathed, beaming. "Did Uncle Cal teach you a new number?"

"Ah huh," Gabriel affirmed. However, he left very little room for the current conversation to continue. His bright blue eyes focused on Harry before his lips twitched into a wide, welcoming grin. His voice was cloying as he introduced himself, "Hi, I'm Gabe."

He lifted a hand, hesitant. "Er… hi. I'm Harry."

The two year old didn't appear one whit bothered by Harry's awkwardness. His head swiveled about, wide eyes taking in the beautiful glimmer of the room. "Mama?"

"Mhm?"

"Where Snape 'ceptable?"

Cleo blinked. "What?"

The boy repeated his question, voice pitched higher, as if that would make a difference. "Where Snape 'ceptable?"

"Probably with the other teachers, Bedbug," Cleo answered, bewildered. "Why?"

"He's the one who checked us in earlier," Cal supplied.

Both Harry and Cleo were equal amounts perplexed by this statement, but it was the latter who ventured with a soft, "He did?"

Cal favored her with a patient glance. "What, did you think I snuck in? I mean, I _am_ pretty brilliant, but why do things the hard way when you can just convince the Head of House to allow it, hm?"

"When the hell did you have time to convince him?" she scoffed.

He shrugged. "While you were having a lovely chat with your mum, _I_ was taking advantage of Snape's inability to decipher how to act around little Captain Gabe over here."

"Bit underhanded of you," Cleo commented, though with no small amount of amusement.

"I have my moments," he preened, tossing his bangs with the backs of his fingers. "Honestly, you should have seen me; I was proper sly! There's Snape, his spindly little knees knocking together - because two-year-olds are _terrifying,_ you understand - and here's me, with a giant list of-" He cut himself off, his apparent urge to pantomime the size of the parchment, and likely the rest of the story, too great. "No I mean it- _giant,_ really. It's like I'm fifteen again; I've written twelve actual inches on why he ought to let me bring Gabriel to Hogwarts. I mean- I'd sing a blinking musical number or- or dance a bleedin' _jig_ if I thought that would work, but Snape's looking like he'd rather _die_ than listen to me, and he starts to say something, you know. _Mean._ Because he _is._ And my best mate Captain Gabe, he just sort of interrupts him, and in the most precious voice he says, 'Where's Mama?' And he starts walking about, looking for you, and- Listen, I look Snape dead in the eye, and I say, 'He's had to ask that enough times already hasn't he?' And he starts grumbling on about _oh, well, Christmas break, this and that,_ but I mean we all know _that's_ a load of rubbish, and Snape - he's all stiff like he's ready to make his grand escape at the drop of a hat - but he's _finally_ sat down, right? So, you know… I do the only rational thing."

"Uh huh," Cleo deadpanned.

With a proud smirk, arms akimbo, Cal announced, "I plop Gabriel right in Snape's lap! Tell him, 'Alright then, _you_ can explain to him why he has to wait extra time to see his mother again.'"

Cleo grasped him by the arm and led him back to the table, stepping a few feet out of the way to pull an empty chair next to hers, single-handed. When she flopped down next to Violet again, it was with a grunt. "Well, that must have been traumatic."

Cal joined them, colliding to his seat with a dramaturgical flare. "He didn't much like that, no, but I mean- it worked, didn't it?"

"I mean, obviously," Cleo granted, situating her son on her lap. The little boy had taken an interest in Violet, though was a little more bashful this round, his greeting nothing more than a little wave that Violet mirrored. "But, like, what did he say?"

"I expect he was a little preoccupied telling Gabe not to pull off his buttons."

Cleo threw him a look. " _After_ that."

"Merlin, you should have seen it…" A grin slithered onto his mouth as he leaned back against his seat, relishing the memory. "Snape lets Gabe down _lightning_ quick, but he's got this sour look and- It's like he's about to take points off Ravenclaw, _ha!_ Nice try, but there's no more detentions for me, thanks!"

"Right," Cleo chuckled.

"And well- I hit him with the facts; didn't write that essay for nothing, after all! In the Hogwarts Charter, it's permitted for professors to house any family members they like up to a certain limit, regardless of age. So in the past, many children younger than eleven have lived in the castle. And guests can be approved on a limited basis under special circumstances. Honestly, if one of your parents had been magical, they might have been allowed to visit you once per term. But, y'know… They aren't, so the castle looks like a trash heap to them. And still, I mean, I wouldn't call Hogwarts baby-friendly exactly, but there's nothing technically barring Gabe from entry. So I talked Snape's ear off about how we'd be coming on a Saturday, there's no classes, it's an extracurricular activity, you and I are both of age to take responsibility for him, Gabe's magical so there's no issue with warding- you know. All the salient points."

"And… how exactly did you dig up all this information?" she pressed, watching as Gabriel leaned over to grasp and pull at Violet's sleeve. The girl graciously allowed him her arm and he began to play with her fingers, one by one. "I wasn't with my mum for _that_ long."

"Well, I mean, it's public record…" Cal dissembled, shifty for a moment before giving it up. " _Alright,_ you got me. I'm too lazy to read the full charter, but my mum isn't. So since she works at the Ministry, I had her write up an official-looking summary… thing. Saying everything's above-board as far as the rules are concerned."

"Wait-" Cleo squinted at him. "You'd been planning this before we'd even met up?"

"Sort of? I mean I was thinking the timeline was going to be a bit different, y'know… Maybe aim for Gabe's birthday or something, but then you mentioned going to a Masquerade with general non-enthusiasm - which is _criminal_ by the bloody way - and it just seemed like the perfect opportunity to surprise you."

She reached over and laid her hand on his wrist. "You did all that for me?"

"Of course! You've been so down about being away from Gabe for so long, and I remember how you always would get homesick while we were in school. And… you know. We're best friends, yeah? So why wouldn't I?"

"Thank you," she said quietly, hand giving his a tight squeeze. "Really."

Cal's smile turned a little shy, his gaze skirting the curve of the table. "Your best thanks to me is having fun at the party- that's all I ask," he murmured just as quietly, meeting her eyes. Then, in typical Cal fashion, he followed it up with a jokingly dramatic sigh. " _So,_ there you have it! The gripping tale of how I annoyed Snape into letting your son visit you."

"Didn't think you were capable," she teased, placing a kiss on the top of her son's head.

"Excuse me?! Any fool can see I am a master of manipulation!" was his over-loud, sarcastic claim. "Hand over your house crest this instant, Clyde! The Sorting Hat was _clearly_ off his block when he first met me, and, let's be honest- I look good in green."

Cleo's lips puckered sardonically as she leaned toward him. "You look good in _everything,_ darling."

He pulled in an exaggerated gasp. "You know what? You're absolutely right! How could I be so blind?! I should've been sorted into all the Houses!"

Cleo let out a soft laugh. "Cal-"

He continued right on. "I've been robbed, truly! My school years wasted on only one color of striped scarf- I'm _gutted!_ "

Cleo reached over to rest a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder. "You poor, poor dear."

Cal's bottom lip quivered in a show of mock distress, but a moment later the expression was wiped from his face entirely, replaced by a manic exuberance. "Ohh- I can't believe…! Is that the Red Cap Rag?!"

The music swelled behind him, the sudden wail of trumpets infusing Cal's voice with giddy energy. " _Yes!_ C'mon!" He grabbed hold of her arm and practically dragged her from the table, not waiting for a reply. "I'll teach you the dance!"

Gabriel's protest was only a startled, "Oh!" as Cal insistently pulled them along. The song wasn't only popular with him, it seemed; as the band rattled out the jaunty, driving ragtime tune, many of the students swarmed around them to begin crowding the dance floor in fervent excitement. Many of them paired off, but many more were looking just as confused as she felt.

In particular, a Gryffindor girl from the meetings, Scarlet, was questioning her girlfriend nearby, "Is it supposed to be a line dance?"

Fay let out a good natured snort. "What the bloody hell is a line dance?"

Ann and Rhys were nearby, though they appeared less than energetic, and Cleo spotted Hermione and Padma taking a turn about the outskirts; Justin Finch-Fletchley graciously accepted a proposition from a younger Hufflepuff girl, and Terry Boot conversed with a gaggle of Ravenclaws before choosing one of the boys as his partner. But, after that, Cal demanded the rest of her attention for what he called "an incredibly important cultural lesson".

It turned out that the Red Cap Rag was not quite a line dance, but rather a sort of choreographed game where the band would charm several red kerchiefs to attach themselves to dancers at random, prompting them to switch partners at several points in the song. Cleo glanced at the line of wallflowers who had kept far from the limelight, and nearly wished she'd joined them instead.

Still, with Cal so beside himself with happiness, and Gabe as a buffer between her and total strangers, she managed well enough not to step on any toes. On one switch, Cleo was even lucky enough to pair with Harry, though the first words out of his mouth were, "Thank _God-_ I have no idea what I'm doing."

Her ear splitting grin belied the hopelessness of her reply. "Me neither!"

The song swirled around the gathered masses, picking up speed and throwing the room into chaos. She switched partners so often that she hardly remembered what any of them looked like and, when the music swelled to a climactic forte before hitting a final low sting, there was a round of cheers and bows that Cleo was only a few seconds late to. Cal found her when the next song started and, though there was no gimmick to the rest, Gabriel's ecstatic squeals and Cal's boundless enthusiasm kept her on the dance floor for a while.

She joked and reminisced with her best friend, swayed to slow songs with her son, danced as cheerfully (and poorly) as she liked. It was equally fun to watch other people, though: There were some younger boys putting ice down each other's trousers, a group of friends who were purposely trying to melt icicles on top of the chaperoning teachers' heads, a handful of students who were fully engrossed in trying to charm the stone floor into an ice rink, a few mischievous students following Ren's lead as they poured something into a punch bowl, and a few scattered couples who were dancing far too close for McGonagall's comfort.

Eventually, though, Gabriel's patience started running thin. Whining and restless, he demanded her attention.

"He's probably hungry," Cleo surmised, glancing toward where the fountains stood on the other end of the room.

"I'll walk him around," Cal offered, taking hold of her pouty child. "Meet you at your table?"

"No problem." She stopped mid-stride to look back at him. "Any preference?"

"Nah. Surprise me."

It was short work to gather some snacks suitable for Gabriel, though she wasn't feeling peckish herself. There was a bit of a line at the drink's station when she arrived, a gaggle of people talking and laughing amongst themselves as they perused the assortment of punch bowls. Cleo snagged a few empty cups as the queue dragged on and was quick to serve herself once a space opened up.

"I'd stay away from the pink one if I were you."

Weasley was stationed beside the fountain like a sentry, attired in normal school robes, just as she was.

"Ah." Her hand withdrew from the ladle.

"Normally, I'd be all for getting sloshed, but today? Best we keep our wits."

"That's probably for the best."

No other words were exchanged between them as she filled the cups. He was staring off into some middle distance, hands in his pockets. For an awkward few moments, they simply existed in the same space, neither of them particularly comfortable. So it came as a surprise when, just as Cleo had finished with the spigot and had begun figuring how to balance a plate and three cups in her arms, Weasley spoke.

"Hey."

She addressed him skeptically as she started sliding the drinks in between her arms. "Yeah?"

"I just, ah… wanted to thank you," he said plainly. "For not telling Harry."

Cleo stared at him.

He looked out over the crowd with a sigh. "We could all use a break, but him more than most."

She turned slightly toward him. "I'd agree with that."

Weasley vacillated in place, obviously nervous. It looked odd on him. "He doesn't like when we keep things from him, but in this case? The more he knows, the more he'll blame himself for not stopping you."

"I have a feeling that's inevitable."

He shrugged. "Maybe."

"But I appreciate it," she thanked him, albeit awkwardly. "Didn't think you cared."

"I'm not your _greatest fan_ or anything," Weasley scoffed. "But you've been a good friend to Harry. And that's enough for me."

"Well, thanks," she mumbled. "I'm glad you think so."

"It's…" he grimaced, taking a breath. "You've really just been tutoring him all this time - weren't even angry after the whole Malfoy… _incident._ And what with all this you're doing for a girl you barely know, and seeing how you act with kids like Thea and him-" Weasley inclining his head in the direction of Gabriel, who was delightedly pulling at Cal's fringe and giggling. "It's just, y'know…"

"Surprising?"

" _Normal,_ " Weasley corrected, favoring her with a bland look. His face scrunched when he continued, "Guess what I'm trying to say is… You're alright, Croft."

"Cleo," she offered softly as her smile wobbled. "I'd give a handshake right now but-" She twitched her overburdened arms.

"They're occupied, yeah," he filled in, matter-of-fact, before tacking on a self-conscious: " _Cleo._ "

"You're alright too, you know." She hesitated, uncertain how to navigate this new territory with him. "I've… admired how determined you are to protect him."

"Well, y'know… I reckon if we don't, who will?" he murmured, swirling around the drink in his own cup. "He's gone to hell and back for us, so… Don't see how I could ever refuse to do the same for him."

"What happened at the Ministry must've been…" Her sigh was all hollowed out as she leaned against the table.

Ron shrugged again, nonchalant. "We're pretty much used to this sort of thing by now."

They shouldn't have been. She hated that they were. "Right."

It seemed he had nothing further to say; without preamble, he took hold of the plate she'd set down before walking away, effectively ending the conversation. They returned to the table without a word, and Cleo was surprised to find it filled to the brim with people she knew.

She was welcomed first by Gabriel's jubilant screeching; Cal was hanging him upside down by his ankles, loudly singing some jaunty nursery rhyme she'd never heard before. Hermione was watching with wide-eyed alarm, but Luna was laying all the way across her seat, head inverted to mirror Gabriel's and smiling dreamily whenever he burst into raucous, side-splitting laughter. In fact, the two of them were more engaged than Cleo anticipated, since, as she reclaimed her seat, Gabriel was giving quite a boisterous rendition of, "Luna, Luna bo-buna, banana-fana-fo-funa-"

He stopped halfway through, seeming to forget the rest of the lyrics. Luna looked pleased as punch regardless.

"You're going to give him a headache," Cleo warned Cal as she doled out the drinks.

"His face has gone red," Hermione fretted in agreement.

Gabriel's breath hitched before bursting into a laugh as Cal abruptly swang him right-side up. "Ta-da!" Cal blared, hoisting the boy over his head to sit on his shoulders. "Captain Gabe, ready for duty!"

Harry was staring strangely at them. "Are you always this…?" He looked like he wasn't so sure how to finish that sentence.

"Energetic?" Hermione supplied, even keeled.

"Mostly!" he chirped, beaming around at everyone before his expression sank into consternation. "I mean, except at work."

Ron pilfered a chair from a neighboring table as Cal sat down on his own. "Oh, yeah? Where at?"

"Gringotts," Cal grumbled, sticking out his tongue with disgust.

"That's sound," was Ron's neutral reply. "I've a brother who works there."

"Good luck to him, honestly."

"What area you working in?"

Their conversation turned to friendly, businesslike banter, and it fell from Cleo's attention when a pair of masked students walked up to Harry, cuffing him on the shoulder. "Oi, Potter! You're lookin' class!"

"Archway turned out alright, eh? Poor Ed's had to swallow his tongue."

Harry smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, I'm just glad we were able to pull it all together."

"Where's your date, then?"

"Yeah, doing lots of _friend_ things, I expect?"

Both of them were sporting conspiratorial smirks at this and Harry's face instantly flushed. "Oh, er. She's…" His eyes drifted to Luna, who was still laid across the chair beside him, back arched over the seat of the chair as she observed a reversed view of the dance floor, her fingers tapping irregularly on her stomach.

One started laughing while the other looked mildly concerned. "Is she ill?"

"Maybe it was the punch?"

The two of them broke down into snickers as Gabriel whined at Cleo from his perch, leaning heavily sideways toward her. "Ow, ow, ow," Cal muttered, his neck bending at a painful angle as he extracted himself from Gabe's grip. The second her son was in her arms again, he grabbed at the plate of food she'd brought before triumphantly holding his spoils aloft.

"Biz-ket!" he screeched before shoving the thing wholesale into his mouth.

"He is _so_ cute," Padma leaned over to say. "Do you mind if I hold him?"

Cleo craned her head over the side of Gabriel's face. "Want to sit with Padma, Bedbug?"

He still had crumbs on his lips when he threw his even crumbier hands toward the table. "Yeah!"

The trade off was rather arduous: Cleo extended the two-year-old over Violet's lap as the girl leaned back to give them room, with Padma fumbling to take purchase on Gabriel's hips as she pulled him to her. When she'd finally settled him in her lap, he reached for her plate too.

"Oh, um, can he eat these?" Padma inquired, indicating the pile of grapes as she blocked his trajectory.

"Oh, yeah, please," Cleo quickly fielded. "I count myself lucky he's even excited to touch a fruit."

"Grape, grape, _grape!_ " he sing-songed, waving the grape up and down several times before eating it. "Uhm, Miss Carrie!"

Unexpectedly, Violet questioned, "Miss Carrie…?"

By then, Padma had given Gabriel full room to assault her plate. He seemed more interested in playing with the grapes than actually eating them, though he did deign to take a small bite of the one he was holding. "Miss Carrie, ahh-"

He was distracted when he noticed Padma's fork for the first time. He was able to grab it after a few clumsy swipes and poked the tines into his half-eaten grape before banging it on the table.

"Think that's one of the nursery school aides," Cleo mused before she reached across the table. "Kiddo, don't do that. It's loud."

"Bam, bam-!"

" _Gabe._ "

The boy did stop, but it was only to place the handle into his mouth. Hermione, who had been observing all this with a puzzled focus, looked from him to Cleo. "How old is he again?"

"He'll be three in May."

"Oh, really?" Padma said, peering at him curiously. "He's so small; I thought he was younger."

"He was a premie," Cleo explained, watching him exaggeratedly chew on the fork as his wide eyes stared up at the girl holding him. "So he's always been a bit smaller for his age."

The fork flew out of the boy's mouth as he clapped his hands together, shouting, "Premie!"

Hermione asked, "Are you very familiar with children?"

"A little," Padma divulged, smoothing back Gabriel's errant hair. "I have a few nieces and nephews in India."

"Oh, do you and Parvati have-?"

"No, no, our parents stopped at twins, thankfully," she lightly snorted. "But our cousins have families, so we see them sometimes, when we can make it out to visit. We're all very close."

"What about you, Cleo?" Hermione prompted. "Did you know anything about children before Gabriel?"

Cleo's initial reaction was a loud, honking laugh. Gabriel sucked in a big breath. "Mama is… ah," he stumbled. "Mama's… Uhm… Mam- uhm, Ma- Mama is the _best_ Mama!"

"I got pregnant just before the Triwizard Tournament," Cleo expanded, as if this thought had any association with the two year old's rambling statement. "And I dropped out of school at seventeen. That's about the extent of my experience with kids."

Padma's eyes bulged with surprise. "He's… _yours,_ then?"

"They look identical and he's been calling her mum for the past three hours," Violet cut in, incredulous. "Of course he's hers."

"So, ah," Padma began, seeming uncertain how to properly express what was on her mind. "Are you still, uh- the, uhm-" She took a moment to cover Gabriel's ears - which the boy didn't mind, as he was enthralled with the silverware - before she whispered, "The father?"

Hermione, Violet and, surprisingly, Harry looked at Padma with varying degrees of shock.

"What?" she backtracked, wide-eyed. "Oh, is that bad?"

Cleo cleared her throat as she sat back. "It's fine."

"I'm sorry, I know I'm nosy-"

"Really, it's not that big of a deal."

"- I mean it's your business-"

Cleo shrugged. "I really don't care. Benjamin has never been a part of Gabriel's life, most likely never will, and that's fine with me."

"Oh." That was Hermione.

"Oh," Padma mirrored, her hands dropping away from Gabe's ears. "Well, that's-" She faltered. "Well, I mean, good for you."

Violet piped up, not even remotely bothered by the awkwardness of the exchange. "Does he ask?"

"Sometimes."

"What do you say?"

Before Cleo could get into much of anything, Gabriel was hollering again, "Goose! Goose! Goose!"

He was pointing vigorously at the folded napkins gliding around the tablecloth. Cal was quick with his enthusiasm on this change of topic. "Ohh you were so close, Gabe! It's a swan!" He swooped in to grab one, cupping the enchanted napkin in his hand.

Her son blinked, mouth hanging open. "Shawn?"

Cal's resulting laughter turned to a yelp of surprise as the napkin in his hands started attacking his fingers. "What the-?" He slammed a hand down on it, pinning the napkin to the table.

Hermione drew her wand, giving it a decisive flick. " _Finite._ " She sighed as the napkin went limp, losing its shape.

Gabriel was deeply concerned by this. " _Oh no!_ "

"No, no, it's okay!" Cal said immediately, eyebrows raised with exaggerated unease. "He's just… _sleeping!_ "

Despite this assurance, Gabriel appeared quite stricken. "S'eepy?"

A sudden realization seemed to hit Hermione then. "Oh, God, I'm sorry! I didn't… I didn't think it would upset him-!"

"It's fine," Cleo cut in. "Right, Bedbug? Is it okay if the swan takes a little nap?"

His eyes looked a little weepy as his lower lip jutted out. "Shawn…"

Padma went right in for the rescue. "That swan may be sleepy but, look!" She was quick to coax one of the other swan-shaped napkins closer. "This one wants to play! Do you want to hold him, Gabe?"

The two year old took this question quite seriously as he held out his hands, decidedly sullen. "Uh huh." He paused and took in another deep breath, seeming to remember his manners. "Yes p'ease."

"Okay, gently now-"

Hermione leaned forward in her seat, earnest as she spoke to Cleo directly. "I'm _so_ sorry, I- uhm. It's just… I've never really- I mean, I've always been an only child, and-"

"Count yourself lucky." This particular lamentation came from a newcomer, who sidled up to Hermione with a casual familiarity. " _Some_ siblings just aren't worth having."

This was said with a pointed glare in Ron's direction, who met the girl's ire with a scowl of his own. "Will you give it a rest, Ginny?"

She sniffed. "I don't think I will, actually."

"Hermione! Tell her we've made up already!"

The girl in question seemed to have calmed somewhat, but her distress was still plain. Ginny's eyes narrowed at her brother. "Have you been bullying her?"

"What?!" He looked affronted at the mere suggestion. "Of course not-!"

At the same time, Hermione held up her hands in a quelling gesture. "It's okay Ginny, there's no need-"

Harry's previous visitors were gone, so he was also at liberty to cut in, "Let's not start a row-"

"I haven't come to _start_ anything," Ginny declared, unperturbed. "I came to tell Hermione she did a good job." She very pointedly turned her way. "So, good job."

"Thank you," Hermione murmured with relief. "And um, sorry I didn't have a chance to tell you before, but the decorations look lovely."

"You were fighting off the hellhounds; I can't blame you. _But,_ this was all mostly Megan's doing anyway, so I can't take credit."

"Well, you helped us with the archway, at least," Harry mentioned.

Ginny offered a little mock salute. "Always ready to be of service," she intoned before her attention fell on Padma. "But, hey. Kind of surprised to see you here, Patil."

Padma's eyebrow raised. "Are you?"

"I mean, yeah?"

"I've forgiven you for worse, if I remember."

Ginny's hands went to her hips. "I do believe that happened _after_ I'd apologized."

Padma leaned forward. "Well, so did Hermione."

"Eh?"

"Did I forget to tell you?"

"Clearly?"

"Oh, well, she did," Padma explained, smoothing out Gabriel's hair again. "Caught me in the library and gave me a very well thought-out and thoroughly articulated apology. And then an even sweeter invitation to be her date." She snuck a cheeky smile in Hermione's direction.

"Granger!" Ginny cried out, grinning rather salaciously herself. "You sneaky bint!"

Ron choked on the sip of water he'd just taken as Cal's face lit up with laughter. Harry, for his part, looked deeply confused by the proceedings while Luna, who had since resumed a normal posture in her chair, peered at everyone around with a vague, dreamy smile. It was Hermione who spoke next, determined despite her obvious embarrassment. "If any of you has a _problem_ with that-"

"Anyone with a problem can shove it up their arse," Ginny proclaimed without a second's hesitation, staring directly at her brother.

"What?" he croaked, still coughing. "Who says I have a problem?"

"I seem to remember you being a right berk to Padma at the Yule Ball-"

"What's _that_ got to do with anything?!"

"I'm just saying-"

"Well, Hermione's quite the considerate date," Padma cut in, preoccupied with watching Gabriel shove the head of the fabric fowl into his mouth. "Brilliant dancer, lovely conversationalist, _gorgeously_ dressed-"

"Oi," Ron warned, his feathers clearly ruffled. "I'll thank you not to compare notes!"

Ginny rolled her eyes at him. "Anyway, I'm off. Just thought I'd visit on the way to the desserts."

With a short wave and a chorus of goodbyes, she left. In her absence, Cal took center stage once more, rapid-firing questions at every person in attendance. He talked about his mum's novelty snitches with Harry, reenacted the time one of the Beauxbatons boys broke his arm for Ron, chatted about his favorite Wizarding bands with Padma, dutifully oohed and ahhed while Luna spoke of her father's magazine, enthused about History of Magic with Hermione, and, all the while, found time to make faces at Gabriel and include him in the conversation. However, though he had diligently tried to involve her, the only one of them who refused to engage was Violet.

She'd become progressively more taciturn and wound tight as the night wore on; so, it was of little surprise to Cleo when Violet suddenly turned to address her. "I need a break."

By then, Gabriel had been in her lap for a solid hour and was making good use of his time napping in the crook of her arm. He barely stirred as she adjusted him into a more comfortable position atop her chest. "Yeah?"

"Starting to get a headache," the girl tacked on.

"Too much in here?"

The girl furrowed her brow painfully as she nodded.

"Okay," Cleo breathed. "No problem. Uhm-"

Cleo fumbled as she attempted to stand while holding her son in such a way that he wouldn't rouse. She wasn't doing a good job; the boy's eyes opened and blearily stared up at her, confused. Cleo's smile was apologetic as she spoke to the table, "Violet and I are going to get some fresh air."

"Oh!" Cal exclaimed, rising abruptly from his seat. "I'll come too!"

Violet didn't look too happy about his barging in; it was a testament to her exhaustion that she didn't object.

The three of them began their trek out when suddenly a soft spoken voice accosted them halfway through the hall. "Wait, Cleo?"

Luna was already beside them when Cleo finally turned in her direction. Without warning, the girl lifted a hand toward her face, the smooth surface of her painted nails brushing away at something on Cleo's cheek. Cleo's forehead creased as the girl continued to swipe away, expression frozen in concentration.

"Hm," Luna concluded, allowing her hand to drop back down. "Guess not."

When Cleo glanced at Violet and Cal, the two of them appeared just as nonplussed as she was.

"I know you didn't mean to dress up," Luna continued as if nothing particularly odd had transpired between the two of them. "But I wish you had. I think the red suits you."

"I, ah-" Cleo floundered. She had no idea what the girl was talking about. "Thank… you?"

"Could I say goodbye to Gabriel?"

Maternal instinct had her quite hesitant. However, she permitted her with a soft, "Sure…" though her arms refused to unlatch from the toddler she held against her torso.

Luna, it appeared, didn't want to hold him at all. Her hand pressed up against his back as she stood on her toes to reach him from Cleo's considerable height, fingers reaching up briefly to trail against his neck. She hummed, pensive, before she went to press her head against the child's spine, hands going to his sides in a small, makeshift hug.

"I hope it's peaceful," she murmured against the boy's dress robes.

"He sleeps like a log," Cleo supplied, trying not to question the girl's behavior too deeply. "But thanks for your concern."

Luna slipped away from him with a soft sigh, a meek smile playing on her lips. With her eyes half lidded and almost… _sullen,_ she regarded the two of them a bit longer before taking a step back. "Thank you for that. Goodnight."

She pirouetted away without a moment's hesitation.

"The _fuck_ was that, Loony?" Violet uttered, deadpan and exasperated, appearing to be at her limit.

Even Cal's amused grin was a little off-kilter. "Couldn't have said it better myself, honestly."

They exited and meandered further down the corridor, the noise in the Great Hall growing more muffled and distant with each footstep.

"You know, I'm actually pretty glad I got convinced into going," Cleo mentioned, hand going to the back of Gabriel's head to hold him steady against her shoulder. She noticed in her periphery Violet was pacing up and down the length of the wall.

"Convinced?!" Cal's eyebrows raised. "I had it on good authority that you were a member of the club!"

"I am," Cleo prefaced, leaning her cheek against Gabriel's temple. "I just didn't intend on going to the dance. The whole thing wasn't even Hermione's idea in the first place."

"Well, Snape said you'd requested it off on your schedule. Planning to skive off, then?" he teased, nudging her in the shoulder.

"Wanted a break," she easily lied. "He works me like a dog, Cal. You have no idea."

"Oh I _do,_ I do," he said, patting her arm sympathetically. "No judgment from this quarter. In fact- you should take _more_ breaks, and spend them with me instead of that old git!"

"I mean, Christmas holiday is coming up," she mentioned. "I'm not sure if you and your mum are doing anything big…"

"No, not really," Cal sighed. "She's scheduled to work on Christmas anyway, so she's thinking of sending me off to my aunt's- ugh."

"Oh, can't get out of that, huh?"

He rolled his eyes. "I think she wants me to keep in touch with Dad's side of the family, but I mean? He didn't even _like_ them. So I dunno why she's trying so hard."

Cleo shrugged. "I mean, maybe she thinks it's important you're able to stay connected to your dad, y'know-"

"I _am_ connected to Dad," Cal stressed. "He's just dead. And no amount of tea with his busybody sister is going to make a difference."

They'd gone down this road a million times before, so Cleo conceded with a delicate, "Yeah. Well- I'm probably going to have some free Hogsmeade visits after Christmas if you ever want to meet up again."

As always, he proved easy to distract; the smile returned to his face so quickly it was like it had never left. "Oh! Spellbound is playing there in January! We should go!"

"Still really into them, huh?" she teased.

"You know me: I love a good tambourine."

"Don't see why not." She shifted as Gabriel gurgled sleepily against her neck. "It'll be fun."

" _Yeah_ it will!" he enthused. "The band tonight was really good too; d'you know what they're called?"

"I don't know," she murmured. "I'm not really up to speed on this stuff."

"Oh well." He shrugged. "I'll ask around."

"Ann's your best bet," Cleo informed him, rubbing the toddler's back.

"Ooh, Miss Shining Star herself, eh?" Cal wiggled his fingers snootily. The boy paused as he squinted off to Cleo's left. "Actually, isn't that her?"

It was, and her boyfriend was with her. With the Entrance Hall being what it was, the couple was out in the open, and Cleo realized they had inadvertently wandered close enough to hear what was being said. "… like you aren't even _listening_ to me, Rhys!" was the tail-end of Ann's sentence. Her arms were folded and stance infused with annoyance.

"No, actually," Urquhart argued, stopping mid-stride. "I've spent _too much_ time listening to you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ann demanded. "She humiliates me, in front of everyone, and your response is to insult me?!"

"It wasn't humiliation, Ann-"

This only further incensed her. " _I'm_ the one who put all this together! Not that buck-toothed _cow!_ If it wasn't for me, _nobody_ would have bothered to come!"

Urquhart pulled a hand over his scalp, a disbelieving scoff escaping his throat. "The fact you think-" He stopped himself suddenly, a frustrated energy leading him to pace away. Ann trailed behind him a few steps before he abruptly turned to her. "You understand that Faith is a Squib, right?"

Without any context, this statement seemed nonsensical. Ann, however, quickly drew back the hand which she'd previously reached out, holding it tightly to her chest.

His eyes darted to it before an embittered smile slithered across his lips. In a level tone, he announced, "I think we're done."

There was a pregnant pause. Ann's dress looked dull in the shadowed corridor, the silence stretching on for so long that Urquhart stopped waiting for a reply and walked off. "Rhys!" Ann called after him, turning around, but the movement made her catch sight of their trio, stopping her in her tracks. Her ex-boyfriend didn't respond and she didn't pursue. Ann simply shot them all a vicious glare before whirling about in the other direction, heading out toward the grounds.

Urquhart passed them all without a glance to re-enter the Great Hall. When they were alone once again, Cal let out a low whistle. "Gotta love school dances; they're so sensational."

Cleo's gaze remained affixed to the spot where Ann once stood. "You know," she began, contemplative. "I never quite realized how young she was until just now."

"Yeah," he conceded, stretching his arms over his head. "They all seem like that now, don't they?"

Cleo leaned her cheek against Gabriel's forehead. "Hope she's okay…"

Cal cast her a considering glance. "Isn't she one of those bullying sorts; y'know, like the kind who used to hounded you year after year?"

"Yeah," Cleo submitted with a sigh. "But she's a kid, too. Kids are idiots sometimes." She glanced toward her best friend, one of her shoulders lifting in a half-shrug. "Can't hurt to hope someone will teach her better one day, right?"

His nod was vague. "Well. Speaking of kids, I think it's about time I got yours to bed."

Cleo couldn't help but pout as her arms tightened around her baby boy. "Already…?"

"Yep!" he said, smiling as he patiently held out his arms. "I'm the malicious baby-snatcher, come to steal him away!"

"I don't want to," she whined, twisting away slightly. "Doesn't feel like I've had enough time…"

"You have Christmas hols, don't you?" he coaxed her. "You'll see him again before long."

"I guess…"

"Promise I'll keep him happy. And I'll only feed him _half_ the sweets from the trolley."

She felt the beginnings of tears blistering against her eyes as she pressed a kiss to the toddler's temple. Gabriel's head reflexively pulled toward her, even as she began to transfer him into Cal's waiting grasp.

Hooking an arm around Gabriel to keep him situated against his chest, Cal briefly pulled Cleo into a one-armed hug. "Hey, take care of yourself, alright?"

Her head perched on Cal's shoulder as she stared down at the boy's slumbering face, her hand cradling the back of his head. "I don't want to wake him, but I kind of want to say goodbye-"

"Either way, he'll hear you." Cal grinned. "Kid's got sharp ears like his mum."

Cleo let out a shuddering breath. "I love you, Bedbug. So much."

He broke away with a backward step, moving to pat his free hand on Gabriel's back. "Six more days! You can do it, Clyde!"

 _I know, I know, I know, I know, I know-_

"Travel safe," she entreated, hands holding the warm spot on her chest that her son had once occupied. "Be careful, please."

He offered a jaunty little salute and a wave before he left, the Entrance Hall doors closing quietly behind him. Violet let out a sigh that could shake the foundations once they had gone.

Cleo had the good sense to be amused. "Bit much for you?"

"He's fine," the girl admitted quietly, her attempt at being polite. "Overwhelming. But fine."

"Hope we didn't prevent you from decompressing."

Violet shrugged under the sound of a distant crowd cheering from the Great Hall. She stood leaning against a wall, head pressed against the stone.

Cleo was happy to stand with her in the quiet, listening to the muffled orchestra, the undercurrent of childish laughter, and the dull roar of conversation. Violet, however, had other ideas.

"They didn't come," she saw fit to point out, giving her a look that bragged: _I told you so._

"They have not," Cleo ceded.

"What time is it?"

Cleo glanced out one of the nearby window slats rather than opting for a _Tempus._ "Nearing half ten would be my guess."

Violet didn't appear pleased by this lean toward impreciseness, but was gracious enough to let it go. "We could get back right now, you know."

"How do you mean?"

The girl's mouth slanted as she balked, "What do you mean what do I mean? We could sneak back to the hospital, _right now,_ and put me back. They haven't missed me yet. We could end this clean."

 _Fuck._

Cleo's posture unwound, shoulders sloping at first before her entire body dipped, a loud sigh escaping before being caught by the hands that went to rub her face.

"What?" Violet prompted. When Cleo didn't answer immediately, she pushed off the wall and stepped toward her. " _What?_ "

"I thought when I explained this to you at the hospital, you understood," Cleo divulged, letting her hands drop to her sides.

"I did," Violet objected. "But the point is that _none_ of what you said would happen has happened. So we can still go back-"

"There's no going back, Violet," Cleo said at once, hand going and failing for pockets that weren't there, yet again. "The portkey is inactive until my next shift. There is no back."

The girl's confusion settled in an uneven, maudlin blink against her eyes; below, her mouth peeled open, fell back closed, and open, and closed-

Her first reply wasn't a word. It was a breath. A disbelieving, incredulous breath. She took a step back. "But-" Her expression bordered on bleak. " _Cleo-_ "

"Hey, Cleo, Violet-!" Harry was jogging to meet up with them, his mask off once again. "Oh, er… Where's the other bloke?"

Although Violet seemed rather perturbed still, Cleo was grateful for the interruption. "He just headed off to take Gabriel home."

"Right," he replied, glancing behind him. "… Right."

" _Cleo-_ "

"Needed a break too?" Cleo pressed on, obstinate.

"Sort of?" Harry said. "Luna's being… herself."

Violet was insistent. " _Cleo._ "

"I imagine that's… exhausting," Cleo responded, ignoring her.

"Well- I wouldn't really put it like _that._ " Harry fidgeted, his gaze finally settling on them for the first time. "It's just…I don't know what happened. She just started crying…"

"Are we seriously not going to talk about this?"

Cleo shot her a piercing look. "Yep," was all she said before addressing Harry again with a much more gentle, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset her if I did."

"No, er, I don't think… Well, I don't know. She left after that, so I can't really…" He only just seemed to take notice of the mood between them. "Oh, er… Have I barged in the middle of something?"

"No," Cleo stated as Violet uttered, " _Yes._ "

Harry's eyes darted between them. "Right."

Cleo's arms crossed. "Was there something you needed?"

"No, ah- Well. Yes, actually," he stumbled a bit before collecting his wits. "I was thinking maybe you should be heading back?"

God _damn_ it. "Why?"

"Well-" He paused to frown. "I've been watching this whole time, like I said… but, after uhm- Well, I sort of lost track of Malfoy."

"Isn't that good?" Cleo remarked. "Probably means he left. Maybe he couldn't find an opening and just decided to give-"

She was cut off by her own reflexive, startled intake of breath. Before Cleo could properly register what was happening, a fan of thick cords had burst out from behind Harry's back, enveloping him. In an instant, he was tangled up, bonds coiled tight around his legs, torso, and neck, tipping him off-balance so he was leaning against the wall.

The first of Harry's shouts was dampened by the hemp contorting his misaligned jaw, but her attention was wrenched away from him when a wand was suddenly shoved in her face, forcing her to step away.

Malfoy stood before her, body tense, knees bent, shoulders drawn back: a Dueling stance. His gaze was sharp as he took another step toward her, not even glancing down as he slammed Harry the rest of the way to the ground.

Cleo's hands drew up by instinct. "Malfoy-"

"Shut up."

Her eyes darted from Malfoy's stony face to Harry's prone body.

"We won't fight you. We won't tell anyone-"

"Croft, shut up."

"You can have it back," she reasoned. "It's not on him, but you can-"

His wand jabbed painfully into her neck as the boy's face contorted with a barely restrained rage. "Leave."

 _What?_

She remained affixed to where she stood. "I'm not-"

"This doesn't involve you," he seethed through gritted teeth. His eyes darted over Cleo's shoulder and she suddenly understood. He was resolved, but more than that. Desperate; frantic, even. "Last chance, Croft. _Go._ "

The sound of Violet's labored breath bloomed just behind her head. Cleo's expression hardened. "No." She stepped toward him, undaunted. "Malfoy, you can't save her like-"

Suddenly, the muscles in his wand arm tensed, indicating movement. By instinct, her arm raised and knocked his sideways. She could barely hear the harshly whispered _Diffindo_ over the sound of her own sucked-in breath that preceded a horrible sting winding down the length of her shoulder. Goosepimples formed against her skin under the unsettling sensation of her blood flowing in thick rivulets down her arm.

She was distracted and unable to anticipate the sudden way he grabbed her body and slammed it against the wall opposite. And, with her out of the way, he made his first encroaching steps toward Violet.

Without thinking, Cleo righted herself and approached him from behind. With a grunt, she wrapped one arm around his neck and the other across his torso as she attempted to pull him back and away from the girl.

The music from the Great Hall picked up, masking the sounds of struggle. She and Malfoy twisted against one another as he attempted to break free.

Then, the loud echoes of Violet's first fleeing steps cascaded around them. Malfoy's attempts grew more violent. His limbs scratched and pinched and pulled and groped every bit of her that he could, until he wrenched hard right and slammed them both back up against the wall with all his might.

Cleo choked as the air left her lungs and Malfoy broke free. He made it two steps out before Cleo grappled him again, pushing him back against the wall, both forearms pressed firmly against his neck, the rest of her pinioning his form to the stonework.

Her pained breath fluttered his fringe as she pushed harder against his neck.

But then, the tip of his wand jabbed hard into her armpit.

A wordless spell shot up her spine.

Indescribable, bone pulverizing agony.

She didn't realize she was on the ground until she felt the bloom of secondary pain against her skull, a somehow tender undercurrent of ache against the bigger plume of torment. Convulsions. Cell death. Electrical haywire. Every inch of her protesting against a loud, harrowing anguish.

She didn't know if she screamed. Maybe she hadn't, but her throat strained. Her first gulp of air was a gasp. Time had slowed to a crawl.

But adrenaline kept her aware. The sudden rush and realization that Violet was running, that Draco had stopped the spell to pick up chasing after her, washed over her in a chill so cold it made her physically shudder.

She struggled to sit up; she could barely see.

Cleo's hands went for her pocket, forgetting there was nothing there.

Violet had her wand.

Panicked, she patted around on the ground. She found Harry's a few feet out from where he'd dropped. Her mouth harbored a painful, suffering groan as she twisted herself in the direction of the pursuit.

Her eyes barely focused; Violet was halfway down the hall. Malfoy was catching up.

Her arm rose up and quivered.

She just needed-

" _Incarcerous,_ " she whimpered.

Nothing.

Cleo struggled to breathe. Then, again, louder, " _Incarcerous!_ "

The ropes flew out but hit wide left, working like a bolas against Malfoy's feet, tripping him. It wasn't enough to stop him. She couldn't fucking _see-_

Harry struggled beside her, his voice muffled and earnest behind his gag.

Cleo's uncooperative body hunched sideways as she brought her tremoring, disoriented hand to his binds.

She heard the first of Draco's attempts at capture: A shouted _Bombarda,_ a frightened wail, the sound of struggle, all hidden under another song starting.

" _Abscindo,_ " she groaned. With a swipe, Harry's arms were freed.

He snatched the wand from her trembling fingertips, undid the others.

Her arms rose with him, glued to his sides, as he stood. "Help her," she bleated, feeble. She pushed him as he began to run. " _Go!_ "

She fell back against the wall, eyes closing.

The sounds stumbled over one another, sequentially, but chaotic.

The music picking up in the Hall; filtering in, drowning out the bellow of footfalls.

 _Stupefy_ underpinning a louder _Crucio._

Malfoy's grunt; Violet's loud, piercing shriek.

The sickening _thud_ of flesh against marble.

Harry's voice careening down the hall, distressed.

Her own panicked breathing.

She didn't understand a word, but she struggled to stand anyway. She stumbled against the wall on her first few steps but eventually found her footing. It took her an eternity to make it where Violet was splayed.

Malfoy was nowhere to be seen. But she didn't have time to worry over that.

Harry was bent over Violet, hands hovering above her, frozen.

Cleo took a few bracing breaths; shook her head to set her mind straight.

It wasn't working, but she fell to her knees beside Violet anyway. Her head was pinned against the marble step of the staircase, held disturbingly aloft as her motionless limbs curled outward from her body at odd, unsettling angles.

Blood splattered against the first three steps. Cleo quickly grasped her by the hips.

"You have to… help me," she murmured to Harry, shaking her head again as her vision blurred. "We need… to get her on her back, okay?"

Although he appeared shaken, he nodded.

"Hold her neck," Cleo instructed. "I'm going to-…" she let out a breath. "Flip her over. Don't let her head move."

"Okay-"

It took a few moments for her to collect herself to dare the maneuver. Harry's hands held fast to her neck and kept her head elevated as Cleo turned her body over and dragged her down against the floor.

The gash against her head spread from the middle of her brow to her left temple, impossibly deep. The dull shine of her skull peeked through the tangled mess of hair and blood.

Cleo's arms were trembling something awful when she released Violet. She had to flex her fingers against her palm to regain some amount of sensation.

"You need to- to do an _Episkey,_ " she instructed. Her teeth felt like they were vibrating.

"Is that going to be enough?" he questioned, eyes wide. "It looks-"

"It's enough to stop-… stop the bleeding for now." She grasped her left hand to keep it from trembling.

At the behest of his tremulous spellcasting, the flesh against Violet's brow knitted together and sealed.

"Okay- _good-_ "

He looked at her, alarmed. "What about you?"

"Not now-"

"But your _head-_ "

She barreled into the next instruction. " _Sanguinem Cir-_ " she swallowed and shuddered, shaking her head. " _Circumitus._ Pin- Pinpoint wand movement." Her expression bunched up as she winced. "Areal… focus."

Harry had a white-knuckle grip on his wand. "Pinpoint where?"

"Heart." When he hesitated, she pointed. "Left side."

He did as he was told, sucking in a breath as his wand jutted toward her heart. " _Sanguinem Circumitus._ "

Nothing happened. Harry appeared to grow further dismayed.

"It's- it's okay," she reassured him. "Try again-"

He glanced up at her, the action quick and panicked. "Right, ehm. _Sang-_ " He cleared his throat. " _Sanguinem Circumitus!_ "

Yet again, the magic failed.

No time for more attempts. Cleo was quick to lean over and press two of her fingers against Violet's neck.

She felt a thrum, but she couldn't tell if the pulse was coming from Violet or her own fingers. She shook her hand. Tried again. Felt nothing. Shook her hand-

She drew away with a frustrated exhale. "Put your-… your fingers here and… and tell me if you feel a pulse."

Harry did as instructed but, though they passed several seconds in anticipation, he shook his head. "I don't feel-"

Adrenaline kicked in again, blood pounding in her ears. In a second, Cleo knelt over Violet, pulling the front of her dress open.

 _Base of the sternum at the xiphoid process. Two knuckles above. Hands folded together._

"Get a professor," Cleo ordered as she did the first compression. " _Now!_ "

As the sound of his rushed footsteps cluttered the hall, Cleo's labored breaths lingered in time with her continued, determined presses.

 _One._

"C'mon-"

 _Two._

" _Wake up-_ "

 _Three._

"God-!"

 _Four._

"Please!"

 _Five._

" _Violet!_ "


End file.
